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by Gaylagher



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Season 7 Spoilers, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13032600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaylagher/pseuds/Gaylagher
Summary: Three years after Mickey left Ian at the border. Three years after Mickey got his heart ripped out of him and stomped on. Three years after he shed his last tears over the redhead. Three years after he was pushed into another obstacle. He had a new name, new identity, a fucking job. Hell, he finally got his GED and is attending a university.Mickey Milkovich, the man who bore many scars and traumas was killed. He wasn't that man anymore. He left everything back in Chicago to rot. Or did he?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm fucking tired of the writers, and i wanted to give mickey justice. i realized that it's not gonna happen until i took matters into my own hands and wrote something.
> 
> here i am again, rewriting a season the writers fucked up again. enjoy, guys.

Ezekiel knew a man that worked in his father’s small store. He had hair the colour of coal, skin as white as paper, and eyes bluer than a gem. He had ghosts of wounds littering all across his skin, and he had bandages on his knuckles Ezekiel didn’t ask, because the man was grumpy when he opened his mouth. But him opening his mouth was rarer than the blue moon.

One day, he had walked into his father’s store after his classes and had seen this stranger. His harsh demeanor put Ezekiel into a ‘fight or flight’ mode before he assured himself that anyone meaning harm wouldn’t sit behind the counter holding an English to Spanish dictionary and silently mouthing the words. So his body relaxed. Ezekiel knew that this man was a foreigner and hoped the man knew English—because that was the only other language he knew. So he said it loudly and clearly; “you’re the new employee?”

The man’s eyes raised to Ezekiel, and he could almost feel him sizing the Mexican up. The duo had a stare off, the dark-haired man’s eyebrows hitching upwards. Ezekiel wondered if he was fluent in English. Or maybe he was deaf. Or both. So it slightly startled him when the dark-haired man replied with a “yeah” and turned back to his little dictionary.

“What’s your name?” Ezekiel asked. “Since you’re going to work here, I should know your name.” He didn’t know why he had to justify himself; you attach a name to a new person you meet. Those sapphire eyes raised up at him again, two wells of water that reflected nothing but impassiveness. Ezekiel swore he saw a hesitation take place in the man’s head, as he stalled seconds to answer the simple question.

“Bryan Forrester,” the man finally said.

“Well, Bryan,” Ezekiel replied, “I’m Ezekiel.” He held his hand out for Bryan to shake, but the man only looked at the hand like it was something foreign to him—like he’s never shaken hands with someone before. “We should get to know each other since we’re spending lots of time with each other.”

“I’d rather keep to my fucking self.”

Ezekiel almost wanted to ask why, but something told him not to. Something said that Bryan had chapters and chapters and chapters of words that described his life, in a book he glued shut.

Weeks passed, and Ezekiel knew nothing more about Bryan other than his name and that he worked for the Mexican’s father. He would sit behind the counter and either pick at his band-aids absentmindedly or try to brush up on his Spanish. He wouldn’t spare Ezekiel a glance.

It’s not like the Mexican hasn’t tried. He’s tried to ask the man for a drink, the man declined. He tried to probe for more answers, but the man glued his lips shut. He didn’t know why Bryan intrigued him—maybe because seeing a new face erupted questions inside him. Questions like _where did you come from_ and _why the fuck would you choose this shithole out of all places to stay? Have you not seen the news?_

The man was a quick learner and knew how to think on his toes. His stance oozed out intimidation so no one would try to rob the place. Hell, even Ezekiel was scared of him, when he reminded himself that Bryan did nothing to intimidate him.

Two years whizzed past, with Bryan still working at the place, and other employees helping both him and Ezekiel. The small store started to become more and more successful. Bryan was becoming more and more reserved, not talking to anyone unless necessary. Ezekiel had gotten used to the silence coming from his part. He gotten used to the selectively mute man, so he was surprised when Bryan’s cerulean eyes found his one day and opened his mouth to talk to him.

“You know any post offices around here?” the dark-haired man questioned.

Ezekiel shrugged. “Yes.”

The pale man pulled out a fat envelope, practically ripping into pieces. Ezekiel’s eyebrows raised as he felt a weighty material before raising his eyes to Bryan. “It’s letters,” the man explained, “just.. make sure there’s no fucking address of mine on there.”

 _Why wouldn’t he want his address on it?_ Ezekiel nodded and opened his mouth to ask the man, but thought better of it. “You didn’t write down to who you want to send it to.”

Hastily grabbing a pen, he clicked on the end, grabbed the hefty envelope and angrily wrote it down—as if he was mad at the envelope itself. He handed it back to the redhead, who nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bryan muttered before walking out.

Ezekiel toyed with the hefty envelope in his hands and climbed into his car, before driving to the near post office. He'd tell Jose not to include Bryan's address. Ezekiel nodded to himself at the plan.

His gaze kept shifting to the envelope and he wondered who Bryan was so attached to, to send so many letters. Maybe it was his lover back home. Maybe she was waiting for his letters. 

 _Or, maybe you should mind your fucking business,_ a voice chided him. Ezekiel shook his head and continued to drive to the office, not letting his mind wander to the envelope beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you left_
> 
> _and i wanted you still_
> 
> _yet i deserved someone_
> 
> _who was willing to stay_

_The three words rang in Mickey’s ears. ‘I love you’. He had finally been able to say it. But was he speaking the truth? He didn’t get in the car. He left, muttering about how ‘this wasn’t him anymore’. He had been doing well, much better than what Mickey thought he’d do. He was an EMT, and he had a boyfriend. A fucking boyfriend he chose over Mickey._

_Mickey’s vision blurred and his hands on the steering wheel became nothing but two pale blobs. His heart screamed out in pain as it was being shredded again. He parked the car to the side of the road. The car still smelled like Ian. Mickey’s lips still tingled with the sweetness of the redhead’s lips._

_He didn’t know when the tears started rolling down his cheeks in small streams, and pooled up on his Cupid’s bow, but the wet tickle of the salty liquid brought him back to his senses. The wig felt heavy on his head, and the dress was suffocating him. Or maybe it was Ian’s smell._

_His body shook with the severity of his silent sobs, as he let the pain engulf him and set everything he cherished ablaze. It was so, so painful, but it hurt less than ignoring the heartbreak. And, goddamn it, Mickey needed to cry._

_He cried and cried and cried until there weren’t any tears left, and then he just wallowed in the sadness, staring out his windshield blankly. He had hoped and hoped and hoped for a happy ending, for something he’d cherish in his crappy life, but it never came. He got attached and all it ever did was hurt him._

_He vowed to never shed another tear over the redhead again. Ian was gone—he sealed their fate. He was a chapter that ended, but a chapter Mickey didn’t want to end._

_As he pulled himself together, wiping his tears with the back of his shaky hand, he started looking around._ What the fuck am I supposed to do now? _He thought. He stupidly stranded Damon. Asshole was dumber than a rock but at least he knew more Spanish than Mickey. Mickey groaned, and annoyance slapped his face as the hurt ebbed away._

_He had no other money than the 32 grand sitting in his car. He didn’t want to use it, but he knew he had to. He unbuckle his seat belt and changed—which was more difficult than he expected—into a shirt, jeans, and his ratty sneakers. He started the car and it puttered, before the dark-haired man started to drive. His feet still hurt because of the painful fucking heels that he wore, but the freeing sneakers slowly ate away at that pain. As he pulled into a gas station, he glanced around, his anxiety blowing towards the sky. He was about twenty miles away from the border and he was still anxious. Cops were still prowling the streets, trying to find him. There would be no time until they’d find him and then they’d throw him back in jail. He didn’t want that._

_Paying for the gas and getting back in the car with a full tank, he glanced around at the buildings and houses looming over him. He was officially homeless and a fugitive. Great._

_He knew he could afford a house—if they took American money—but the difficult part was to find an apartment._

_His hands clutched the steering wheel tightly as he drove through the streets. This was going to be harder than he planned it to be._

Mickey remembered having to sleep in hotels for weeks before he could find an apartment. He finally found one in Rancho Tierra Blanca, and luckily the landlord took American money. He stayed there for a year and worked in a gas station before moving to El Jateado when he had enough money. He has been in El Jateado ever since.

There was no sandals. No tequilas. Mickey didn’t go to the beach. He _despised_ the beach. The word reminded him of whispers of promises that were broken. The first year, he was bitter and cold and he shut everyone out—he became selectively mute. He didn’t talk to anyone unless necessary. And even then, he’d silently reply with body and hand gestures.

The second year was a bit better. He talked some more. But he kept everyone away—he built a wall that was ten times stronger than before. There was a redhead who hung out at the place he worked at; Ezekiel. He reminded Mickey of Ian. Golden specks littered across his pallid face, hair that seemed to look like fire. It was painful for the dark-haired man to come to work for a while. He kept Ezekiel further away than anyone else.

Ian was always on his mind, even three years later. How was he? Mickey hoped he was okay. Fuck, the redhead hurt him so much but it killed him to know that Ian was suffering.

He lay there awake in his lonely apartment as he thought of his love. His bed and apartment weren’t that big but being lonely makes your apartment seem like a mansion and your bed seem bigger than it is. Inches of empty space where Ian could be, if he was with Mickey now.

The annoying ring of a Skype phone call pulled Mickey away from his thoughts. He knew it was Svetlana, and he answered it with an annoyed huff. “The fuck do you want, woman?”

 _“Hello to you too, my love,”_ the Russian quipped, rolling her emerald eyes. On her lap was Geno. Mickey glanced at the kid, and noticed how much he looked like Mickey. _“Pretend that you give a shit about the kid.”_ She said this all the time. Mickey was getting tired of it.

However he plastered on a smile. “Hey, little guy. You’re getting big.” His smile evaporated quickly as his eyes travelled to Svetlana. “Happy?”

_“Filled with joy.”_

“When the fuck did you get so sarcastic?” He placed the glowing laptop on his table as he walked away from the camera and opened a drawer. He counted all the money in the drawer. He had slowly started to save up to give back to the redhead. 32 grand was over 611,000 pesos, and Mickey exactly had 650,000. He hadn’t seen that much money. He hadn’t had that much money in his hands, until—

_Fuck._

_“Bar isn’t doing well,”_ Svetlana informed the dark-haired man. _“You have money?”_

Mickey’s head was doing gymnastics. He’s already paid the rent for this month; he guessed he could keep the rest to himself.

_“Hello?”_

Annoyed, Mickey went back to the laptop and sat on a chair in front of the desk. “What?”

 _“Said bar isn’t doing well in money,”_ the brunette replied, agitated herself.

“The fuck am I supposed to do about it?”

_“Send money maybe?”_

“Yes because I have _loads_ of money, don’t I?” he quipped, rolling his cerulean eyes. “I look like Bill Gates to you?”

 _“Fine, have your child and mother of your child die,”_ the brunette replied.

“You can fucking afford it. I know how cheap your ass can be.”

_“Would it kill to send money to us?”_

“Are you just gonna bitch at me about money? Because if you are then goodnight.” The Russian glared at him before hanging up. A pang of guilt infiltrated him as he went to the drawer and picked up all the money. He surely didn’t need 40 thousand pesos. Not when he was making enough to not be financially struggling.

Sighing in annoyance, he shoved all of his money in his bag. _Fuck Svetlana for making me feel bad._

 

****************

He had somehow been able to convert the money into American dollars. His heart was pushing itself against his chest hard with a loud _thud-thud, thud-thud._ He was scared to be carrying all this money. He knew he could defend himself but he’d have to start all fucking over to raise all of that money again.

Walking into the store, he saw Ezekiel’s bright face as the man smiled at him. “Hey, Bryan.”

It took Mickey a second to realize he was talking to Mickey. He forgot that he went as a new man here—he couldn’t adjust to the new name, no matter how hard he tried. “Hey,” he replied. The bird in his chest fluttered about as he thought of Ian and compared the two redheads. It was wounded yet it would rise to the top of its cage and try to escape, but he didn’t let it, sitting behind the counter.

He didn’t have feelings for Ezekiel—he couldn’t get attached to anyone. His heart was back in the Southside, where it had been beaten and run over plenty of times. Besides, it was fucking weird to have a crush on someone whose father was your boss.

However it wouldn’t be the first time Mickey had a crush on a redhead that he worked with.

Customers trickled in slowly, as if they were water in a lazy river. They eyed all of the objects and Ezekiel would help them. Mickey would scan their products and they’d leave. Some of the girls would flirt with either Mickey or Ezekiel—or both—and Mickey wouldn’t pay attention. They were barking up the wrong tree for him. Ezekiel, however, loved it.

“Those girls were beautiful,” Ezekiel grinned as he eyed a group of girls that had just walked out the store.

“Sure,” Mickey replied. He didn’t bring up the fact that he was gay—no one knew he was gay. He was shoved back in the closet and the door was locked, which prevented the dark-haired man to come back out. _So much for accepting myself._

“You didn’t find them beautiful?” the Mexican frowned, much to Mickey’s annoyance. He considered just telling Ezekiel that he liked dick up his ass, but decided to swallow those words up.

“I said ‘sure’, does that not fucking confirm it?” he responded curtly.

“I guess,” Ezekiel shrugged. He stayed silent the whole day. Until Mickey had got the envelope out of his bag. Mickey knew Ezekiel didn’t believe him when he said it was letters—he wouldn’t believe himself if he was Ezekiel—it was the only excuse Mickey could think of.

But as both of them left, Mickey had felt peaceful. Like the burden over his shoulders was finally lifted. Maybe he could start to move on, now that he paid Ian off.

Maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _do you think you'd reach out and hold me_
> 
> _like you said you would?_

Trudging home after a long night’s work, Ian felt empty. It wasn’t unusual; he’s been feeling like that for a long time. He hated it, but there was no point in fixing it. It had been three years since he left Mickey at the border and watched him cross it, and he didn’t cry. Surprisingly. What was left instead was an emptiness, a sudden regret. That regret didn’t go away. It clung to him with every step he made, every breath he took. _Why’d you leave him at the border? Why’d you let him go? Why? Why? Why, goddamn it, why?_

Sometimes he’d go days without thinking of Mickey and didn’t register the regret with success. He’d think he was going somewhere—that he was going to be better. That he’d finally be able to move on. But then it would hit him at random times; like eating lunch with Sue at work or taking a shower. He’d think of hair the colour of coal and eyes the colour of sapphire and the pretense that he pinned up like a curtain that _maybe he was going to be okay, maybe he’d move on_ would be slashed with a knife. Because it was only plastic—flimsy and easy to rip if you had the right weapons.

Ian hadn’t thought about Mickey for days. But the feeling of guilt still tugged at his heart, even when he didn’t think of his ex, which mingled with the pain that was there; like orange juice to cuts. He knew it was his fault, but fuck, that didn’t mean his heart didn’t hurt. He thought he’d been doing okay but he realized that he was scraping by. He looked okay—he had a job, he had his own apartment. But that was all on paper. He thought that this stability was him. But it wasn’t.

After Monica had died and Carl was able to sell Ian’s meth, Ian had taken the money and opened a new bank account and stashed the 10 grand in it, not touching one penny of it. He wasn’t financially struggling, so he didn’t need it for rent. He didn’t feel like spending it either. What the fuck was he going to spend it on?

Instead of going to his apartment, and go to sleep early, he went to the Gallagher household. He would come in randomly, but no one cared. They just liked seeing a friendly face. He just liked being around people.

So when he walked in without announcing that he will, he was greeted by hugs and big smiles.

“How’s it goin’?” Fiona questioned, hands on her slim waist.

“It’s going good,” Ian managed to lie.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“It’s late, Fi,” the redhead smirked, “if I drank coffee now I’d be up all night.”

“Right, right,” she muttered. “Coke?”

“Please. I need something carbonated.” She nodded before reaching into her fridge and getting a can out, sliding it to him across the counter like it was a bribe. Ian took it and opened the can without much strength.

“Have you updated your address?” his older sister questioned.

Ian took a swig. “Yeah, why?” He had changed his address online the minute he got WiFi—there was no reason for anyone to send Ian’s mail to their home.

“Something came in the mail. For you.”

“For me?”

“That’s what I said. It was pretty big too.” She walked away and handed the package to the redhead, with scribbled handwriting on it. Ian noticed the writing. It was Mickey’s. He knew it. His hands hugged the cool can as he stared at the package, and didn’t bother touching it. Just like that, the thoughts of Mickey came back sevenfold, and it froze his joints. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t fucking _breathe._ “A-are you okay?” Fiona questioned, and Ian reluctantly raised his eyes to her concerned face.

It was hard getting his mouth to open, but he somehow managed. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah. I guess the person who sent this to me didn’t know I moved out.”

Lip walked in, and saw the tense form of his little brother, the package, and then his concerned sister. “Who’s the package for?”

“Ian,” Fiona answered.

“It was delivered _here_?”

“Yes.”

Lip’s cerulean eyes darted between the two and the package before opening his mouth. “Did you update your—”

“I did,” the redhead answered.

“Huh. Weird.” The trio stayed in silence before Fiona muttered an excuse to leave the room. Lip watched their older sister leave before he turned back to the redhead. “Who’s it from?”

“Probably Mickey,” the ginger answered.

Lip picked up the package. “That’s a lot of shit.”

“It’s 32 grand.” Ian could almost see Lip’s eyes bulge out of his sockets.

“32 gr—why would he give you that much?”

The redhead chewed on his lip. “When we were on the road three years ago, we made a visit to the bank. I closed my account and gave all the money to him.”

“You gave him _32 grand_?” he was flabbergasted.

“Yup. I thought it’d be enough to keep food on our tables in Mexico before I changed my mind.” The guilt increased sevenfold, waves of it surrounded him, and Ian was anchored to the floor. He was drowning, drowning, drowning. “I guess he paid me back.”

“What are you going to do with it?” his older brother inquired.

Ian racked his brains for something, _anything_ he’d do. Maybe he’d buy himself a car. Oh, that would be so nice. Ian hated public transit, especially at night. Maybe he’d lend some to help pay off the mortgage Fiona has. Maybe he’d give it to charity. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All of them were ‘maybe’s, masking the fact that he didn’t want to spend it.

His hands tightened around his Coke can. “I don’t know.”

 

****************

When the redhead had gotten home, he ripped open the package and took out the money. He counted it, and then recounted it. It was more than $32,000. He was about to throw the envelope out when a little note fell out, barely longer than his index finger. He picked it up, and he saw Mickey’s handwriting scribbled on it. _Give the rest to Svetlana,_ it had said. That was it.

Nothing else. Ian had checked. And rechecked. And checked again. Nothing else but those words. He still kept it close to him because that was the closest contact the redhead gotten to Mickey in three years. And it was fucking comforting, like rain after days of draught. Like taking a hot shower after you’ve come home from the freezing cold. Like sleeping in your love’s arms.

It was fucking pathetic, Ian knew it, but he’d grasp at anything close to Mickey, no matter how small it was. The redhead checked for a return address, but couldn’t find any. He had so many words to say to the older man, but he couldn’t. He felt like a caged animal; wanting to run in the wild and feel the wind tousling his fur but he was in a cramped space, where he drank out of a bowl and slept for most of the day.

And for the first time ever since Mickey got married to Svetlana, the redhead cried over the dark-haired man. He didn’t know why he was crying, just that the tears spilled over and left drops of water on the tiny note. Maybe it was tears of anger; anger at himself for losing the only thing that made him feel _alive._ Trevor wouldn’t talk to him, he distanced himself from his family, and even his friendship with Sue was starting to dwindle like fire.

He was all alone and he had no one to blame but himself. And he hated it. He hated knowing that he was the one that fucked it all up beyond repair.

Wiping his tears, he kept his money in a drawer and the money he’d give to Svetlana in another drawer. It was late, that’s why he was feeling lonely. The night awakens any feelings that you’ve put to sleep, and forces you to feel them no matter how much you don’t want to.

Or maybe they were always awake and Ian just ignored them.

 

*****************

Knocking on the door, Ian studied it. It was worn out, ratty. He wondered how bad the interior was, when he saw harsh emerald eyes and ratty brown hair. “What you want?”

“Came here to give you something,” the redhead replied vaguely.

“What is that?”

“Will you let me in first?”

“Depending on what you brought me.” Her eyes were scrutinizing him; watching very carefully, studying his features.

“Money.”

“Money?”

The ginger nodded. “About one grand.”

Her scrutiny increased as she narrowed her eyes. “Your money?”

“Not mine.”

“Then who’s?”

Ian swallowed. “Mickey’s.” The scrutiny stopped. It was replaced with confusion.

“Why would he give you money to give to me? Makes no sense.” He knew she didn’t believe her, but as she was about to close the door, he stuck his foot in.

“If you let me in and gave me a chance to explain, I will,” the redhead answered. Svetlana mused over this and then opened the door, letting the redhead in. She closed the door and locked it before turning to Ian.

“Explain.”

And so Ian did. He told Svetlana about running away with Mickey and how he left Mickey at the border with all his savings and how Mickey had finally paid him off and gave some for her to keep. And she listened. She said nothing while he talked, and stayed silent when he finished.

“Let me see the money,” she finally said. The redhead took it out and gave it to her, and she counted it. A small smile formed on her lips, and the harshness melted away from her eyes—but only for a split second. The ring of a Skype called echoed in the room and Svetlana walked over, read the screen and glanced back at the redhead before answering it.

 _“You got the money?”_ Ian’s heart pounded frantically in his chest as his emotions fluttered up to his throat. He hadn’t heard the voice in three years, and he didn’t know how much he missed it until he heard it again.

“I did,” the Russian replied. “I need to—”

 _“This won’t be something I’ll do often,”_ the dark-haired man warned her. _“I have to fuckin’ eat too I’m not living like a fucking king over here.”_

“Okay. I—”

_“But I’ll try to send some. Maybe two grand next time, I don’t—”_

“Ian’s here,” the Russian interrupted. Silence. Ian felt like there was a spotlight shining bright on him, so bright that he didn’t even register the fact that Svetlana didn’t call her some dumb fucking nickname. Ian was glad that he couldn’t see the dark-haired man’s face. He’d do something stupid, like cry.

The silence stretched on, until Ian could hear the sound of the Skype call ending. The redhead had a gut feeling of who hung up, and he didn’t like it. Without a goodbye, he walked out the apartment, wondering if he made the right choice by coming back to Chicago for the umpteenth time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _where do we go from here my love_
> 
> _when it’s over and i’m standing between us_
> 
> _whose side do i run to_
> 
> _when every nerve in my body is pulsing for you_

Mickey shut the laptop, his hands shaking. He had been _so close_ to seeing Ian’s freckled face, to hear his voice, to talk to him again in over three years. He could almost taste the opportunity he missed out on. It balanced on the tip of his tongue and it tasted like the ginger Mickey had fell in love with.

Opening the pack with his hands, he lit up a cigarette, and took a long drag. His other hand ghosted the tattoo on his chest. Ian Galager. He was fucking sure it’d show the redhead how much he had loved him.

_“Thanks for coming back.” He studied the redhead. It had seemed like a light had died out inside his ex—like a lightbulb broke in an apartment but no one bothered to replace it._

_“Yeah,” Ian said after a moment of silence. “Svetlana paid me.” Mickey would’ve been lying if he said it didn’t hurt. It was as if someone dug their dirty nails into his chest, and tore at his heart savagely through the gaps of his ribcage. Mickey decided to change the subject, not wanting to talk more about how his wife paid his ex to see him in jail._

_“You look good.” Silence. The redhead couldn’t even look at Mickey; like his eyes weighed tons and it would break Ian’s back just to lift them up, look at the older man. “I got a new tattoo. Did it myself, hurt like a son of a bitch.” He lowered the receiver to pull down at his orange jumpsuit. The tattoo was way too sore, and the skin around it was infected. Mickey couldn’t stop scratching at it, which would make it bleed. He looked up at the redhead’s grimace, and the duo picked up the receivers._

_“It looks fuckin’ infected.”_

_“Kinda hard to round up a clean needle in here.”_

_“Gallagher is spelled with two l’s.”_

_“No it’s fucking not.” He checked the tattoo again. He could hear the redhead laugh, but it was gone way too quickly. Mickey felt whole again. Ian’s eyes were trained on the table again. “Been thinkin’ about you. You ever think of me?” Silence. “You gonna wait for me?”_

_“You’re here for 15 years.”_

_“Yeah, but I’ll be out in 8 with overcrowding, so..” he shrugged._

_“You tried to kill my sister.”_

_“Half-sister, one. Two, like you give a shit. Bitch had it coming, calling fuckin’ MPs on you.” The bell rang, indicating that the visiting hours were over. But Mickey stayed rooted to the seat. He wanted to know if Ian would wait. If the redhead gave even half a shit to wait. The feeling that anchored his stomach down to his groin said otherwise. “Will you? Wait?” His smile faltered. ‘Please, please just say you’ll wait’ he thought. But as the silence stretched on, the hope was being stolen from Mickey, and the glue that held his heart together was failing. Everyone else was leaving. He should’ve left. “Fuckin’ lie if you have to, man, eight years is a long time.” This time, he couldn’t look at the redhead._

_“Yeah,” the redhead finally whispered. “Yeah, Mick, I’ll wait.”_

Realizing cigarettes won’t do anything but increase Mickey’s miserable state, he decided he was going to get shitfaced. Stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray, he walked out and headed to the nearest bar. Within living for two years, he had gone to every bar and club that weren’t too far from his place. He’d wake up with a massive hangover, his clothes strewn on the floor and dried, crusty blood on his Cupid’s bow from snorting too much coke.

He’d try to chase the misery away with a bottle of whiskey, numbers of snowy lines, strange hands, and blurry faces. But the misery was still lurking at the bottom of the bottle, the end of the line, and was snuggled up beside him like his lover the morning afterwards. At the end of the day everyone left him, besides misery. Misery stayed. Even when the dark-haired man wanted it to leave, opening the door wide open. It never got a clue.

“Hey, Mick,” the bartender, Aylene, grinned, “haven’t seen you in a while.” _Why is everyone so fucking happy here?_

“Yeah, I was too busy working to be passed out on this floor,” the dark-haired man quipped. He eyed the bartender while she made his usual drink. Soft black hair cascaded down her tiny waist, and dimples were indented on her cheeks when she smiled or pressed her lips together. Her eyes were the colour of coffee. She was twice Mickey’s age, but didn’t look her age. She had told Mickey that if he ever needed anyone to help him with his Spanish, she was the one to go. Mickey declined, but she persisted until he got annoyed and gave in. She was the closest to a friend that Mickey had gotten in the country.

A bob of red hair caught Mickey’s eyes and his heart squeezed uncomfortably tight, as he shifted in his seat.

_“Red is what attracts humans the most, y’know,” the ginger said as Mickey ran his fingers through the strands of fire. Both boys were naked, laying in Mickey’s bed. Mickey had come out half an hour ago in front of the whole bar, but it seemed like a lifetime ago—like Mickey had died and was respawned as a new man._

_“Is that why I’m attracted to your ass?” he teased. “Because my brain likes the colour red?”_

_“You’re attracted to me for more reasons than that, Mick,” the redhead pointed out. Both of them knew that it was true. His tattooed fingers travelled down to the bruised ribs, and could feel the redhead flinch under his fingertips._

_“Does it hurt that much?” He couldn’t hide the concern in his voice._

_“No, it was just.. reflex.” A large palm rested on his cheek, and Mickey couldn’t help but lean into the touch, milking its warmth in, absorbing the tingle it gave him. “You got more punches in.”_

_He let out a snort. “Yeah, okay.”_

_“You did.” He cradled Mickey’s face in his large hands. “You did.” Mickey was swimming in two orbs that were swamps; he could feel the emotions radiating off of his boyfriend like it was rays of the sun kissing his skin. It touched him all the way to his bones. He slotted their lips together, and they molded as one again. It was short, and sweet—he didn’t want to exert too much force on his boyfriend. “I’m fuckin’ proud of you.”_

_“You are?”_

_“Yeah.” He smiled—it was sweet and lasted long. “You know how I feel about you, right?”_

_“No shit, I do.”_

_“You feel the same way?” Emerald eyes were pleading for him to say it back; to not push away the emotions between them. To not ignore the electricity and the need to be around each other, touching each other.. kissing each other. But Mickey couldn’t find the words. So he kissed the redhead again; with more love than he’s ever felt for anyone before._

The only thing Mickey was kissing was the rim of a cup when he heard Ezekiel’s voice right beside him. “Hey, Bryan, didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“He took a break from drinking himself to death, but he’s back to doing it,” Aylene teased and Ezekiel laughed.

“Give the man a break. He probably came here to unwind. Not listen to your condescending ass.”

“Mm, ‘condescending’. Did you _just_ learn the new word?”

“I learned it before you.” Aylene rolled her eyes and walked away while Ezekiel grinned from ear to ear. It almost looked like someone took a knife and slit his cheeks from one side to the other. Aylene muttered curses under her breath (probably aimed at Ezekiel) as Mickey quietly sipped his drink. Ezekiel turned to the dark-haired man. “Are you going to be doing anything next week?”

“No.”

“I'm hosting a party next week. It'd be cool if you'd be able to come."

“Turn him down, _mijo._ His parties are never that great,” Aylene informed the dark-haired man.

Mickey opted to an ambiguous answer to make the redhead go away. Much to Mickey’s pleasure, he did leave, and it was Aylene and Mickey again. Her dark eyebrows were creased in worry as she set her deep eyes on Mickey. “What?” Mickey finally questioned after he got annoyed with her looking down at him as if she was his mother and he had the flu or some shit.

“How have you been doing, Bryan?” she questioned.

Mickey hesitated, his mind trying to pull his face together to give the older woman a half smile, but his body refused. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“It’s just my face.”

“No, it’s not that.” She shook her head. “I know I joke about you doing drugs and drinking and going off with random strangers, but ever since I met you, I’ve been concerned. Yeah, it’s great for business having you buy our drinks but this isn’t healthy, _mijo._ Would you care to tell me what’s going on?” Her eyes were pools of chocolate and concern. Mickey hesitated, letting his defense lose its iron grip on his mouth before tightening their grip again.

“I’m fine, Aylene. Really.” He nodded, as if it would confirm that he was happy when he was anything but. She didn’t believe him, but there was no point in trying to pry Mickey open. He wouldn’t open up, no matter what. He was a case that was filled to the brim with stuff he didn't want people to see. So when she went to make drinks, Mickey quietly slipped out of the bar and staggered home, laying on his bed and closing his eyes.

He let slumber rob time from him; he let sleep carry him off his feet and remove him from this world, even if it was for a couple hours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _it is your blood_
> 
> _in my veins_
> 
> _tell me how i'm_
> 
> _supposed to forget_

Weeks went by and Mickey was still in Ian’s head, his name rolling off of Ian’s tongue when Ian’s fingers were wrapped around his cock and desperately tugging at it to find some sort of release, some other feeling other than emptiness and ‘ _what could’ve been’_ s. But his efforts were fruitless because he felt lonelier as the days stretched on.

Sitting at a bar, he didn’t think this was a good idea. But maybe he needed a friend. He gave up on having boyfriends ever since he left Mickey at the border—his hands couldn’t touch another man with tenderness and affection when his heart was with Mickey. He was split between two countries and a border, and he didn’t want someone to only have half of him when the other half was in Mexico. That wasn’t right.

Having a friend however provided that itch of loneliness he couldn’t scratch; that solitude he couldn’t deal with, growing up with the Gallaghers. Solitude was a foreigner on a land that was his body.

 _Maybe I should leave._ He shook his head to himself. That was shitty as well. Calling someone over and then leaving before they arrive makes you an asshole. Looking around at everyone drinking, he developed a jealousy towards them being able to drink; not having the complicacies of medication working on your brain like construction workers on a patch of land.

_The dark-haired boy held the can horizontally against Ian’s lips, as Ian hungrily sucked on the slit made in it. The liquid was bitter and was burning everything while it travelled down Ian’s body. Or maybe it was Mickey that made the fire._

_When Mickey finally lowered the can, his sapphire eyes gleamed in the darkness with pure joy, while he grinned ear to ear. That smile could make flowers bloom in the dead of winter. Ian watched the boy lean against the fence as he lit up a cigarette, muscles tensing up and relaxing. Ian couldn’t stop staring at him._

_“That was good,” Mickey admitted._

_Ian felt his lips pull into a smirk. “I only offer the best.”_

_Mickey laughed. “Get outta here, cocky asshole. I said it was good, not that it was the best.”_

_“So you’re saying there’s some dude out there that’s better than me?” the ginger raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know Mickey was fucking other men. Or did they fuck him? Did he bend over like be bends over for Ian?_

_But the dark-haired man shrugged. “You free tomorrow? My dad’s on a drug run and I was thinkin’ maybe we could hang out tomorrow.”_

_“Nah, work,” the redhead admitted. “You have work with me.”_

_“I don’t wanna fuckin’ go. I hate it when the bitch barks orders at me through the stupid walkie-talkie thing?” his face was scrunched up in confusion._

_Ian laughed. “She’s your boss, she’s gonna give you orders.”_

_“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”_

_“True.”_

“Hey,” a voice said. Ian hadn’t heard of it in over three years. The last time he did, he hurt the man. Trevor smiled softly.

“Hi,” Ian greeted back as his ex sat down. “I’m sorry for texting you on such short notice—”

“That’s fine,” Trevor smiled, waving the excuse away dismissively as if it were a fly. “I’m surprised you texted me.”

“I’m surprised you came,” the redhead admitted. “After.. you know..” The silence stretched on as the duo thought of how they left off last time they talked. Guilt nibbled away at Ian’s numbness.

“How are you doing?” Trevor asked all of a sudden. “With.. with your mom’s death.”

Ian smiled. “It’s been three years since she died, Trevor, I’m over it.” He was in denial of it for a while, even though he attended her funeral. He thought that she left, and _she’ll be back, she always comes back._ It didn’t hit him like a truck hitting an object. It filled him like a slow trickle of water filling a cup. At first there wasn’t enough in the cup, maybe a millimeter or so. But surely, it filled up.

“That’s good to hear,” Trevor nodded. “I met someone.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Not much to tell, honestly,” Trevor shrugged. “He works as a bartender. I met him when I was babysitting my shitfaced friends. We’ve been dating for two years now.”

“That’s great,” Ian smiled. “Really.”

“Yeah, I really love him.” Trevor smiled back. “How about you? Meet anyone new yet?”

“Nah,” the redhead shook his head. He _really_ wanted a drink. “I’m just not ready, you know?”

Trevor grinned. “It’s been three years.”

“Yeah, I..” Ian hesitated. How does he explain why he hasn’t been able to get into a relationship? “I’m.. not really over what happened three years ago.” He watched his ex’s grin die out, like a fire. The silence stretched out between them; it was stretched out thin, until it wasn’t anything but a worn out layer above the duo. “I’m uh.. sorry about what happened. I really am.”

“I’m over it, Ian,” Trevor reassured the redhead. “I just was.. upset about how little I meant to you.”

“Hey,” the redhead shook his head, “you meant a lot to me. I did care about you. Mickey and I.. weren’t finished.”

“Are you finished now?”

The redhead didn’t have to think about it; he didn’t have to carefully strategize how he was going to say it. He didn’t have to dunk the words in a bowl of sticky sugar to give them the illusion of being sweet when they were anything but. It rolled off his tongue effortlessly; “No.”

There was a long pause. Ian scrambled to try to change the subject, and tried to fill the space with small talk, because he didn’t want Trevor to be poking and prodding at the tender spots inside him. Tender spots where he hid the piece of Mickey he had away, when Trevor opened his mouth. “Why’d you ask to hang out with me?”

Ian blinked. “What?”

“Why’d you ask to hang out with me?” Trevor questioned again.

“I guess.. to apologize? Or be friends. I do miss you. Not in the way that you think. But you were my friend, someone I could hang out with, y’know?”

“You hit me up because you have no friends?”

“That’s not unreasonable, is it?”

“No,” his ex answered. He furrowed his eyebrows, as if he were in thought.

“Do you think we can be friends?”

Another long pause. “Do you want me to be honest with you?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Trevor shook his head. “We just have.. way too much history.” Pity laced his features. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Ian assured his ex and stood up. He wasn’t upset; he didn’t spiral down into a hole of self-pity. “It was nice knowing you. Really.”

Trevor smiled, sadly. As if he was upset over ending something that was destined to end. Ian found it stupid, honestly. You couldn’t keep flying a plane when it’s reached its destiny. You couldn’t stretch out a relationship that was meant to die. It doesn’t work. “Take care of yourself, Ian Gallagher,” Trevor had said. Ian nodded.

“You too.” And with that, he walked outside of the bar, the night air hitting his face and cooling him with the relief he needed. He needed sleep; he had work the next day. But instead of walking to his building, he stayed rooted to the place he was sitting on, as if something anchored him to the ground.

_“Are you finished now?”_

_“No.”_

Ian started walking towards Svetlana’s building, the darkness swallowing him up as his shoes hit the ground. Just like how you couldn’t fly a plane when it’s reached its destination, you can’t just stop flying when the plane _hasn’t_ reached its destination. He wasn’t done with Mickey. He hadn’t arrived at the destination. He wasn’t finished.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _that's the thing about love_
> 
> _it marinates your lips 'till the only word_
> 
> _your mouth remembers is his name_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: depictions of death, and blood.

Putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it, his eyes downcast, he walked to his car. He had gotten way too high last night and let a man take him home. That didn’t annoy Mickey much; in fact, he didn’t care. Sex was sex; it wasn’t intimate to him anymore—just an itch that needed to be scratched. Or a void to be filled. Either way, it was something to give him relief.

He could remember the night before, the fucking. The way _his_ name leaked out of Mickey’s mouth, like it was sitting on Mickey’s tongue. Like it was quietly, patiently waiting for its time to be let out. And when it did, it echoed around the room, and it made itself loud—like it was a prisoner that was finally free. Mickey could feel the stutter of the man’s hips behind him before he kept going as if nothing happened.

Mickey was too far gone to care the night prior, but the memory came back sevenfold, running around his mind like a child, reminding him that he _wasn’t fucking quiet_ and that the feelings he tried to ignore were still there. They were like lava and he was a volcano. It was going to erupt at one point. Mickey didn’t know what he’d do with the mess afterwards.

He wasn’t ready for the storm of an announcement waiting for him at the apartment.

Kicking shut the door and locking it, he could feel his brain knocking against his cranium, as if it wanted to be let out. Opening his laptop, he had seen someone add him on Skype. Clicking on their profile, he noticed that it was Mandy. _How the fuck did she get my Skype?_

Confirming the request, he was about to close his laptop when the ring of a Skype tone echoed in his room. His brain hit his cranium harder at the sound, before he answered it. “Make it quick, I got a headache.”

 _“Hello to you too,”_ she answered, and Mickey took a good look at her. Her hair was blonde, cascading down to her waist. Her makeup wasn’t as gothic as it used to be; it was minimal. She had been wearing an old t shirt that draped over her as if she was a rack and it was a towel.

“How’d you get my Skype?”

_“Svetlana gave it to me.”_

That raised more questions than answer them. “Svetlana?”

 _“Yeah. You haven’t heard about Terry, have you?”_ Mickey’s heart jumped in fear, quivered like an abused animal dropped at the shelter. He could feel himself morph into a tiny child cowering in fear from his father. He could almost remember how Terry made his home a prison and how his hands would curl into fists of iron and paint Mickey’s canvas of a skin with bruises, and his mind with trauma. The trauma still held onto him like leeches, sucking out his happiness.

“Terry?” He found his voice, but he almost felt like his spirit was out of his body; like he was watching himself from somewhere else.

 _“He died, Mickey.”_ She grinned. Anyone would’ve found it odd that she was smiling because Terry died, because _he was her father after all._ But Mickey got it. Scum like Terry should’ve died long ago.

“How?”

 _“In his sleep. He had a stroke.”_ Mickey wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh until his gut was sore and his face hurt. Terry, the man who was loud and destructive and big, passed away as peacefully and quietly as possible. A measly stroke was what took him down, chopped off the last leg he was standing on. It was laughable. But the bubbly feeling that would shake his insides like an earthquake didn’t happen, and laughter didn’t spill out of his mouth. His land of a body was tranquil.

“What are you gonna fuckin’ do? Cremate him?”

 _“Funeral,”_ she answered, shaking her head. _“I wanted to. So did Iggy and Joey. But apparently our uncles wanted a ‘proper burial’ for the asshat.”_

“Where are you then?”

 _“Southside. I’m.. I’m at Ian’s apartment.”_ Mickey’s heart stopped cowering in fear and grew wings, fluttering to the top of his throat like it always knew how to fly—it just had to grow wings. His gut twisted and turned and his mind buzzed with one word; _Ian._

“He has his own apartment?” His voice was calmer than how he felt.

_“Moved out a couple years ago.”_

Mickey nodded and he muttered an excuse to get offline. He was hit by a trainwreck of emotions, and he didn’t want to clean up the aftermath of the situation. His apartment felt lonelier, colder without people in it. He always thought himself of a lone wolf, but maybe the lone wolf needed a pack to survive, or to rely on.

 

****************

Walking to the bar, he mused over Terry’s death. He thought that after Terry perished, so will the hurt that his father caused. But the hurt and the trauma were still there, creeping up on him as if they were patiently waiting to come out of their hiding spots. And Mickey wasn’t able to push them back into their hiding spots now.

_It hurt. It hurt everywhere. It hurt internally as well as externally. Blood oozed out of him and the side where the pistol collided with him throbbed in pain. His heart hurt—it was cowering in fear and bleeding out. Bleeding out for the redhead boy who looked terrified. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mickey wanted to say. ‘I’m so sorry.’_

Mickey stopped in the middle of his tracks, bile rising up to his throat. He wanted to throw up and cry and lock himself away from civilization all at one time. He focused on his feet as he walked—one foot in front of the other, to the bar. When he arrived, he didn’t see Aylene.

“Where’s Aylene?” Mickey questioned as he took a seat.

“Called in sick,” one of the bartenders said as he began to pour Mickey a drink.

“Aylene called in sick?”

“That’s what I said,” the bartender looked at Mickey like he was stupid. Mickey grit his teeth, steeling away from decking the man in his face. Too much has happened to challenge Mickey’s patience.

“She’s probably home, _gringo,_ ” one of the locals said to Mickey. “Puking her guts out or dying or some shit, I don’t know.”

Mickey nodded, and walked out of the bar. He let his feet carry him to Aylene’s building which was at the least, five minutes away from the bar. It was a building that looked shiny and new, but the inside was falling apart. As he walked up the stairs to her floor, he was out of breath. His knuckles tapped against the wooden door, as his lungs took in huge amounts of oxygen.

Warm chocolate brown eyes laced with sadness greeted him at the door. ‘Hi, _mijo._ ” She tried to smile but it was more of a small grimace as she stepped to the side to let the younger man in.

“You weren’t at the bar?”

“Didn’t feel well.”

“You look.. fine.”

Her chocolate brown eyes refused to look at the dark-haired man as she locked the door. “You want anything? Coffee? Food? Weed?”

“Weed,” the dark-haired man answered and followed the older woman into the living room. There was a blunt tucked behind her ears, and more crushed up marijuana sitting next to paper in a bowl, sitting on a coffee table in the living room.

“Was going to make myself more, but..” she shrugged. “Help yourself.” Mickey sat down and expertly made a blunt, before lighting it up. It had been years since he had a blunt between his lips, and he closed his eyes at how relaxed it made him feel. He didn’t notice Aylene sitting down until she started speaking. “I didn’t go, because.. well, today doesn’t mark a good day.”

“What does it mark?”

Her dark brown eyes locked with Mickey’s. “My son’s death.”

Mickey’s eyebrows involuntarily raised a bit. “Shit, I’m-I’m sorry—”

She smiled. “That’s alright. It’s not your fault.” There was a silence as she relit her own blunt, taking a drag. “Been a couple years since he did pass away.”

“How’d he die?”

“Shooting.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Fucking had a heart attack when I realized what had happened. I still identified the body.”

“More than one person died?”

“Ten, the cops said,” she answered. “I didn't believe them. I don’t trust cops.”

“Yeah.” Mickey took a drag before blowing it out. “Neither do I.” The duo smoked in silence, the quiet hum of the fan whirring to keep the two cool filling the room as quickly as the smoke did.

“Have you ever lost someone?”

“To death?”

“To death.”

Mickey shifted in his seat. “My mom. She fuckin’ overdosed on heroin. My dad died today.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, he was a piece of shit. It’s.. fine. I’m happy.”

“You don’t seem happy.” When Mickey stayed silent, she decided to change the subject. “I tried to get in contact with his father, tell him. Even though his father was a.. what’s the word?”

“Deadbeat?”

“Yes, deadbeat,” she nodded enthusiastically, “he deserved to know that his kid died.” Mickey wanted to snort at that. He wanted to roll his cerulean eyes at her. He left; he made the choice to not know about the child. But he controlled his urges, because she wasn’t in the mood to deal with his attitude. “I loved him, you know? His dad. Well, I loved my son too. I probably still do love his father. It’s hard, _mijo._ ”

Mickey could feel the middle of his chest rip open; all the skin being ripped in half to show his heart caged in his ribs, barely beating. He swallowed and nodded, pretending to not relate. “I bet it is. Men aren’t shit, though. They.. they promise you the fucking moon and stars and all that romantic shit. And they don’t stay true to their words.”

_“Don’t do this.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“Then get in the fucking car.”_

“Have you ever been in love, _mijo?”_ she peered at him curiously; like a child staring at something it hasn’t seen before.

Mickey blew out the smoke. “Yes.”

“What was her name?”

Mickey stayed silent, hesitating to take the next step. His foot was raised, about to take the step, but something invisible was holding it back. A wall of some sort. The more time passed, the more he decided that he didn’t give a shit about the wall. He’d kick at it until it’d crack open. “His name was Ian,” he replied.

She looked surprised for a while. “Oh.” She sat up straighter. “Okay. I didn’t mean to assume—”

Mickey shook his head. “It’s fine, Aylene.”

“What-what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Maybe it was the weed that made him this open. Maybe it was his heart wrapping its arms around the fact that he _maybe_ had a friend that he could talk to, instead of being cooped up in his apartment. Maybe he just wanted a friend that he can talk about what happened to. And that friend was staring at him, hanging onto every last word. He sighed. “He was supposed to come here with me. Left me at the fuckin’ border.”

“That’s fucked up,” she commented, and Mickey felt the bubbly feeling in his stomach that was missing before. It shook the land of his body and released itself out of his mouth. It was fucked up, and Mickey should be upset, but here he was, laughing like a madman. But it brought a smile to Aylene’s lips. “What?”

“Nah, nothing.” He smiled. “It is fucked up.”

“You’re right, _mijo,”_ the Mexican woman stated, “men are unreliable. We’re all fucking unreliable. No one’s permanent. You either die or you leave someone.”

“Then what’s the fucking point of getting attached?” Mickey questioned. “What’s the point of making relationships, falling in love with others, caring about others if we’re all fucking unreliable and are gonna leave anyways?”

“There’s no point,” the older woman answered, “but it’s essential to care. It’s a double edged sword, isn’t it? You can’t help but love, but you know that they’re going to leave you anyways.”

It was a double edged sword. Caring was something that Mickey didn’t know he was able to do, and it hurt him when his love was crushed into a little ball and thrown away. He got stabbed by the sword over and over and over again until he had more wounds than he can count.

How many more could he take before enough was enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year guys! i'm gonna sleep bc it's almost 2 AM here but yeah! hope y'all had a great day!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you are the heart that beats inside mine_

Packing always seemed like a nuisance to him.

Fitting everything into a bag, hopelessly trying to rearrange your belongings so it’ll all fit, the impending frustration of realizing that it won’t, and then playing mental _eeny meeny miny moe_ with your belongings that don’t mean anything to you but it has _sentimental value_ so you keep it, has to be the most frustrating thing ever. Ian was starting to go mad.

Or maybe he was already mad.

Angrily shoving things out, he found a shirt that wasn’t his. The sleeves were ripped off; strings swinging in the free air, and he didn’t know if he wanted to pull the strings out or leave it be.

The frustration melted away, and evaporated—from solid to liquid to gas, to not even being there. His heart rattled desperately in his bruised ribs, adding more injuries to the bones.

He couldn’t remember how the shirt had gotten there. Maybe he got it mixed up when he moved out. Or maybe he deliberately took it with him, just so he had this piece of Mickey. As if Mickey was a book and Ian wanted to rip a page out and keep it to himself before throwing the rest of the book away. It was stupid, but maybe Ian needed that page to give him comfort.

He sniffed the shirt. It very faintly still smelled like the dark-haired man. Hugging the shirt like he was hugging an actual human being, he carefully folded it and put it back in the bag. There was no way he was gonna throw that shirt away. He may have thrown the book away and only ripped a page out, and that page may be yellowing, but it was close to his heart.

Mandy emerged out of the extra room, gazing at the empty apartment. “You’re actually doing this.”

“I’m actually doing this,” he confirmed, as he throw other articles out. “Do I really need this many pairs of underwear?”

Mandy crinkled her nose. “Of course you do. What if you run out?”

“I’ll wash them,” the redhead answered, “I know you’re fucking bourgeois and all that shit, but I’m sure you remember what washing machines were.” He smirked at his best friend, who was pretending to inspect her fingernails.

“Oh _those_ old things?” she quipped, “I haven’t had one in years.” Her acting ceased as she burst into laughter. “But no, seriously,” she said when her laughter died down, “are you gonna have enough money? Do you want me to give you money? I could if you want.”

“Oh, no, I got that covered,” the redhead assured her. “Remember the meth money? Yeah, I got 100 grand sitting, just waitin’ to be used. Also, Mickey sent me money, so I have that as well.”

“Wait, hold up,” she said, “why would Mickey send you money?”

“I closed one of my savings account which had $32,000 in it before I, uh..” he swallowed, “left him at the border. He paid me back. So I have $132,000 waiting to be used,” he explained, and then hesitated. “Less than that. I withdrew some of the money for a car.” He hadn’t known what to do with that money until recently—he was moving to Mexico. He transferred his job to Mexico and he had gotten the town Mickey had stayed in through Svetlana; but not without begging for it.

“Well, tell him I said hi,” she murmured.

Ian nodded in response. “How are you? Are you okay?” he gently rubbed her arm. Terry’s funeral had thrown her into a spiral of relief and guilt for feeling relieved at something like death. It was eating her alive—a virus slowly controlling her emotions.

It was Mandy that nodded. “Yeah,” she croaked and then cleared her throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s.. confusing for me.”

“I get it,” the redhead replied. “Felt the same way with Monica.”

“Really?”

“Really.” His hands went on autopilot and took out invaluable items. “I was upset that she died but in a really weird way.. relieved. She won’t be able to come back into our lives and fuck us up even more, y’know? She’s left, for good this time.” He shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “I have to go. Work tomorrow.” She opened her arms and the redhead hugged her. “Promise me you’ll.. fucking contact me as soon as possible.”

“I will,” the redhead responded as he held her tighter. He hated saying goodbye to her, he would hate it when she walked out that door. He was tired of goodbyes with people he cared about the most. He knew he’d see Mandy again, if she chose to fly to Mexico; but that didn’t make it any easier.

The feeling of sadness was a dark blanket around his chest that was too heavy and woolen, as he watched Mandy leave.

Turning to his bag that was still over flowing, he sighed loudly. “Back to work,” he said to the quiet apartment.

 

****************

The wind tousled his hair as he drove down the highway, smoking a cigarette. The car that he bought wasn’t new, but it was a reasonable price. The sun glared at him, as if it had eyes and was watching him drive closer and closer to the border.

_“So, uh, you’ve ever been to the beach?” the dark-haired man inquired. He was radiating happiness. It was warmer than the sun shining down on the two, kissed him gently the way Mickey kissed him at the docks._

_“No.”_

_“Sun all year round,” he began, “no more freezing our asses off. Just sandals and tequila from here on, man.” The silence stretched on between them as the redhead let the words sink in like teeth sinking in on flesh._

_It didn’t seem like a bad idea at all. Maybe they’d be happy, away from the bullshit. Mickey would be free and Ian would be with Mickey._

_“That’s what kept me going in the joint. The beach.. us.”_

Nighttime crawled around, crept into the blue sky and spread over the city like a blanket. Exhaustion grabbed ahold of him and he booked a hotel room. The hotel room wasn’t snazzy but it was good enough to sleep. As he sat down on the bed, the reality of him traveling across the border with Mickey sunk in; bit by bit, inch after inch.

This was actually happening. And he didn’t feel uncertain. He felt complete; something he hadn’t felt in years. He felt like he finally got a glue strong enough to piece him back together, so he wasn’t ripped between two countries and a border.

After having something to eat and brushing his teeth, he got the shirt tucked in his bag, the distinct smell of Mickey wafted in his nose. Holding the shirt towards him, he laid in bed, sleep sweeping him off his feet and carrying him into a spiral of darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _tell me how i'm supposed to forget you_
> 
> _when you're embedded in the love songs i hear_
> 
> _and your voice is stuck on replay in my head_

Looking back to when he woke up and started another bland day with his routine, Mickey wouldn’t have thought that he would be bombarded by events. It started off as him waking up and eating his breakfast to the quietness of his apartment. Staying at home allowed him to be just Mickey and not Bryan—an imposter, a man who was pretending to have a normal life.

He didn’t like being Mickey.

Mickey had too much pain in his heart, too many memories in his head. Mickey was fucked up and broken. Bryan, however, was a simple man that kept to himself most of the time.

He liked being Bryan because Bryan never fell in love. Bryan never got assaulted. Bryan never had his heart broken. But _fuck,_ was being Bryan lonely. So he called Mandy as he ate.

 _“Don’t get me wrong, but,”_ she sighed, _“the North side is boring. Full of pompous fucks and cheating, vanilla husbands who think me sucking on their fingers after putting them inside me is kinky.”_ She rested her chin on her fist, watching her older brother chew on his food.

“Spare me the details of your fucking sex life, please,” Mickey begged, “it’s hard enough to live here, I don’t need a detailed picture of you fucking some geriatric viagroid.” He sipped his coffee, the bitter taste trailing down his stomach.

 _“I left Ian’s a week ago,”_ Mandy informed Mickey, and watched his fingers tighten around the handle of the mug. His heart still put itself back together—as if it wasn’t broken in the first place—and fluttered about, even after three fucking years. His apartment got bigger and quieter.

He licked his lips and stared at his younger sister’s face. “I don’t care.” He’d be lying if he said he actually didn’t. He wanted to ask so many questions; like _is he okay_ or _does he still think about me? Am I on his mind as much as he’s on mine?_

 _“He’s doing good for himself,”_ she continued, as if she saw right past Mickey’s bullshit.

“I said I don’t care.”

 _“We both know you do, so quit with the fucking charade,”_ she snapped, furrowing his eyebrows. Mickey swallowed, the lump in his throat forming as he stared down at his coffee. He forced it down—he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t going to _fucking cry._

“He still an EMT?” the dark haired man questioned, raising his eyebrows, but his eyes refused to look up at his sister.

 _“Yeah,”_ she answered, her voice soft; as if she was talking to a child who would burst into tears at any given moment.

“Good for him. I, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I gotta go to class. I’ll talk to you later.” His fingers reached over to end the call.

 _“Take care of yourself,”_ she said as he hung up. His ears rung with the silence that his apartment presented him, and stared at his miserable reflection as his laptop screen went black.

He could almost feel himself putting on the suit that was Bryan, hiding Mickey from everyone else, pretending that he wasn’t Mickey, as he hastily threw on an outfit.

 

****************

_You have any time to kill, mijo?_ The text said as Mickey read it. He quickly typed an _I do_ under his desk as his professor droned on about a subject he didn’t really care about. He didn’t care about school, he didn’t care about his job; but it helped kill the time for him. Quickly typing the time his class would be over, he put away his phone and pretended to pay attention.

When he had gotten to El Jateado, he had _nothing_ but time on his hands, taking up space on his calloused palms and getting heavier and heavier to hold. Work and school had taken the time off his hands and offered to hold it. Fucking random people and passing out on cold, hard floors also helped time pass, but wiped his memory away with a dry clean eraser—as if his mind was a whiteboard and the memories were marks.

Ahlene and Mickey would meet up from time to time and smoke, and they’d share snippets of the childhood that they allowed to slip through the gaps of their teeth and into the air.

Days would be seconds and seconds would be too short to be counted—a millionth of a minute.

Walking over to his car, he saw Ezekiel walking over to him. “Hey, Bryan.”

“Hi,” Mickey replied back as he leaned against it.

“Is it okay if you do a double shift today?” he questioned, “Isabella is having her baby today.”

“I thought her baby was due in two weeks.”

“I thought so too, but her water broke this morning and her boyfriend called my dad and shit. Explained the whole thing. No one else was free. I would’ve covered it myself but I’m busy tonight too.” His tone was apologetic, as his brown eyes searched for a sign that Mickey was down for it.

Mickey wanted to lie and say he was busy so he could spend time by himself the night. But his mouth failed him as he sighed and said, “sure, whatever man.”

Ezekiel grinned. “Thanks, I owe you one.” He walked away before waving bye to Mickey, who didn’t bother to wave back. He got inside his car and called Ahlene, counting the rings subconsciously.

_One, two, three, four rings. The rings was a hand in Mickey’s chest that tightened around his heart; the more rings he would hear, the more the hand tightened. He was getting impatient and worried. He imagined Ian and Yevgeny dead. He never believed in God, but he was desperate enough to get down on his knees and beg for all Gods, any God, to hear him._

_‘Please,’ he pleaded internally, ‘please pick up.’ Terry had always said that a begging man was a weak man—that he didn’t have the strength to get up on his feet and fight for what was rightfully his. But Mickey’s feet were swollen and blistered from fighting and walking and hurting. He just wanted Ian back in his bed._

_“Alright, shithead, this is, like, the 200 th time I’m calling and you not picking up, I’m starting to get fuckin’ homicidal,” he said when it got to voicemail. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves—but electricity was pulsing through him, enough to power the whole state. “Call me the fuck back, Ian.” He took another breath. He couldn’t let anything happen with the man he loved. Why didn’t he listen to Fiona? “I’m worried about you. I love you.”_

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he inhaled deeply as his brain was being bombarded by Ian. The _click_ of the phone being answered didn’t calm his heart as it knocked against his ribcage. _“Hi, mijo,”_ the voice chirped.

“Hi,” he breathed. “Where, uh.. where do you want to meet up?”

 _“Coffee place across my building,”_ she answered, _“are you okay?”_

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

 _“You sound.. anxious,”_ she replied.

“I’m fucking fine,” the dark-haired man lied. He was anything but, but he didn’t want to talk about the redhead. Once was more than enough.

 _“Alright,”_ Ahlene sighed, _“I’ll see you there in a couple minutes?”_

“Yeah.” He hung up, taking a deep breath and absentmindedly scratching his chest, as he started the car. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tight, his skin stretched tightly over his knuckles, making them seem alabaster instead of the slight beige that his skin tone was currently because of the sun.

As he got out he saw two uniformed people walking in—one man with hair as red as fire, and lean; the other man short and dark haired. They both were solemn, quiet, as they walked in. Mickey leaned against the exterior of the building wall, taking out his cigarette and lighter, lighting it up and taking a drag.

He was almost done with his cigarette when he noticed Ahlene’s car pull up, and he put out the cigarette, flicking it onto the ground. She smiled when their eyes locked, walking to him. “Hi, _mijo._ ”

“Hey,” he answered, as the duo walked in. "I got a double shift tonight.”

“I thought you had one shift tonight.”

“Ezekiel asked me if I was free tonight to work a double,” he explained as the duo walked in, “my dumbass was honest. Wanted to get high or some shit. Apparently that’s not happening.” They walked to the line, as Ahlene crinkled her nose.

“At least you’ll be sober tonight.”

“Who said I’ll be sober?”

“Bryan, you’re not doing anything before work.” They had gotten to the front of the line, Ahlene asking what she wanted, followed by Mickey as he took out his wallet. “Put your wallet away, I’m paying.”

“I’m not a fucking child,” the dark-haired man protested.

“Never said you were.”

“Yeah, but you’re acting like it.” He paid for his drink as Ahlene rolled her eyes and paid her own. “I’m not a fucking charity either. You’re not obligated to pay for the shit that I want.”

“Yeah, but you’re blowing it all on shit you don’t need.”

Mickey searched her face for a comeback—as if the comeback would be written in black marker on her face—and sighed. “Fuck you.”

She laughed. “Exactly.” They got out of line as they waited for their food to be given to them. “There’s a new guy that moved into my floor,” she said, as Mickey leaned back.

“And I care, why?’

“You don’t, but you will when I say he was hot and my gaydar was going off.”

The dark-haired man smirked. “Your gaydar?”

“Yes.”

“You need to tune your fucking gaydar, you didn’t even know about _me,_ ” he pointed out.

“But I _know_ he is,” she persisted, “he’s a redhead and I know your type are redheads.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he sighed.

“Let me finish,” she ordered Mickey, which caused the latter to stare at him, his eyebrows raised. “He was tall, redheaded. Nice. He had a killer smile. You’d love him. Maybe you can finally move on from Ian.”

“We both know that ain’t happening.”

“Probably not,” she frowned. “Try him out anyways.”

“I’m not, no one wants my mopey ass anyways.” He shrugged and got their food, walking to a table. In the corner of his eye, he could see the redhead in uniform, the man’s back turned to him.

“Bryan, you need to move on,” she informed the dark-haired man.

“We’re not talking about this now.”

“But—” she sighed. “Okay. Okay, we won’t talk about it. The offer’s still out there, until I know he’s with someone else.”

“You should be focusing on your own fuckin’ love life instead of mine,” the dark-haired man said and chewed on his bagel.

"No one wants my mopey ass anyways," she retorted, smirking at the younger man as he scoffed.

The two ate while filling the silence between them with words that Mickey would forget by the end of the topic, until Ahelene excused herself to go to the washroom.

Mickey’s fingers tapped the table as he looked around, and his sapphire eyes would glance between the redhead and his fingers. Red hair was always significant in his head, capturing his gaze. It was as beautiful and vibrant as the sun, but didn’t blind him and make him turn his head away.

He reluctantly made himself stare at his fingers as the redhead had gotten up and excused himself. He picked at his nails until Ahlene came back.

“Hey, listen, I gotta cut this short,” she said in an apologetic tone. “Sister called me, said she was coming by.”

“That’s fine,” Mickey nodded.

“We’ll talk again soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He watched her ask for a box for her food so she can take it home, and hurriedly walked to the door, turning back to look at Mickey to wave goodbye.

Mickey waved back and ate his food silently before getting up and walking outside, fingering for his lighter and cigarette again. His gaze had landed on the redhead he had taken notice of multiple times throughout him and Ahlene hanging out, talking to his coworker again. Mickey could see the side of his face, and his heart jumped to his throat, about to climb up to rest on his tongue.

His muscles were tight, as his fingers gripped his lighter too tight. The redhead had looked at Mickey, his eyes widening slightly in surprise momentarily, before it was replaced with joy. Emerald orbs littered with golden, a smattering of freckles littered across his face, neck, and hands, and redhead cut short but not too short.

Ever since he crossed the border, he thought he left his heart, his soul—everything he valued in America. He had come to Mexico as a wasteland. He never thought they would come back to him, least of all, with Ian Gallagher in tow.

And yet, there Ian was, with Mickey’s soul as his coat and Mickey’s heart in his hands. Willing to give it all back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY'VE FINALLY REUNITED! what you've all been waiting for!
> 
> when i say i had a million and one ways to bring them back together, i'm not exaggerating y'all. i finally chose this one because idk it seemed the best way for them to meet again.
> 
> anyways, my updates have been inconsistent, and i apologize for that! my exams will be done next thursday, and i will try to squeeze in an update before then. worst case scenario, i update on thursday.
> 
> sending lots of love!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i'll sift through the ashes_
> 
> _in search of the spark_
> 
> _that ignited my mind_
> 
> _and lit up my heart_

Ian was drowning in two wells of water again.

His skin was slightly tan; not the alabaster paleness Ian remembered. His hair was still the colour of charcoal but it was shaggier than he remembered. Ian’s heartstrings were pulling to thread into Mickey’s own, but his feet were anchored to the floor.

The dark-haired man averted his eyes and walked away, as if he didn’t see Ian. “Ian,” Simon’s voice said, waking him up from his trance. “What’s up with you? Let’s go.”

Ian mumbled an apology and kept glancing back at his ex, who was getting in his car. It was the same old green car that they stole from the parking lot.

_“I love you.”_

_“Then get in the fucking car.”_

He couldn’t stop thinking of Mickey during his shift. Even after he went back to his apartment, when he was writing down in his journal about how he felt that day, like his psychiatrist wanted him to. Exhaling through his mouth as he begged his mind to concentrate, he lowered his pen down on the paper.

 _Felt better than usual,_ he wrote, and paused, gritting his teeth when he kept thinking of black hair and blue eyes. “Fuck it,” he sighed and closed his journal, grabbing his pack of cigarettes. He walked down to the front of the building and swallowed a lungful of the air, before lighting his cigarette. His pack was empty, save for the one Ian had just lit. He took a drag.

Lighting his cigarette, he realized that he had no idea where Mickey was now. Was he at a club? Was he fucking someone else? Did he _have_ someone else? The thought of Mickey being and falling in love with someone else were two hands mercilessly ripping Ian’s heart.

Maybe he was at the bar. Wait. _The bar._ Mickey would daily visit the Alibi back in Chicago. It’s been three years, he would’ve gone to the bar. Ian was smarter than to sprint over there and ask them if they knew who Mickey was. Knowing Mickey, he’d go by a different name. Mickey’s name was plastered everywhere, no one would question him if he had a whole new identity.

And Ian didn’t know what his name was. _Goddamn it._ He sucked the last bit of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and putting it out. His frustration wasn’t put out as easily. He needed another cigarette. He walked over to the nearest convenience store—while asking nearly everyone who spoke English where it was.

The store looked like it needed some more renovating, but fit in with the shady town it was situated in; like a hand in a glove. Opening the door it let out a little chime that immediately annoyed Ian. Or maybe everything was annoying.

It was probably the latter.

His annoyance left his system as his eyes landed on the dark-haired man behind the counter talked in Spanish to a woman whose food he was scanning. Sapphire eyes landed on Ian’s, and Ian could feel his heartstrings pulling towards Mickey again. His eyes averted Ian’s again, helping the woman put her stuff in the bag, while Ian hunted for cigarettes.

“ _Gracias_ (thank you),” he could hear the woman say.

“ _De nada_ (you’re welcome),” the dark-haired man replied, and Ian could hear the chimes and the door close. The redhead grabbed a pack of cigarettes and walked to Mickey, who scanned it.

“Hi, Mick,” the redhead greeted, offering a small smile.

“The name’s Bryan,” he replied, “the fuck are you doing here anyways?” he read out the price of the pack and Ian fumbled with pulling out his money.

“Got transferred here.”

“Why would they randomly transfer you here?”

“I asked,” the redhead answered, putting the money on the counter. The older man paused.

“What, you decided you wanted to pack all your shit and move here after three years, huh?” he swallowed, struggling to hide the emotion behind his mask. “What about your little fuckin’ boyfriend? He pack all his shit and move here too?” Ian could see how painful those words were for Mickey, as if they were shards of glass he was throwing up. They were scraping against the wall of his gullet.

Ian swallowed this time. “We broke up when I left you at the border.”

The dark-haired man lowered his eyes to the money and grabbed it, punching the amount in. “Thought this wasn’t you anymore, whatever that fucking meant. I still don’t understand what you mean by that.”

“I don’t understand either,” the redhead agreed. “Stability, I guess?”

“So stability was more important to you than I was, huh?” he laughed bitterly. “Thanks for the confidence boost, Gallagher.”

“No, I—” the redhead sighed. “It wasn’t _just_ that.”

“You made it sound like it was.”

“Now I’m correcting myself,” the redhead took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Not just for making you think that stability was more important to me than you were. Are. I’m sorry for fucking ditching you. For going all the way to El Paso and then changing my mind. That was shitty of me.”

“That took you three years to realize?” Mickey raised his eyebrows.

“No, I knew it all those years ago.” The silence stretched on as both men tried to piece together sentences, not wanting to force out fragments that only exposed a small portion of their emotions. Ian wanted to tell him how much he ached for him; how much he _needed_ him. And how he was _so fucking sorry_ for not getting the memo earlier. He wanted Mickey to kiss him, and for them to be back together.

But instead, Mickey put his money in the register and handed him the change. “Have a nice day.”

“That’s-that’s it?” the redhead questioned, dumbfounded.

“What, you think I’d fuckin’ come running back into your arms like I have every other time we reunited?” Mickey scoffed. “I’m fucking tired of being strung along and being happy for, like, a couple weeks, only for things to go to shit again. That isn’t me anymore.”

Part of Ian wanted to cry and get on his knees and beg for Mickey to take him back. He wanted to push Mickey until they got back together. But all Ian’s been doing is pushing Mickey. He didn’t want to do that anymore. He was done with being pushy and stubborn and self-centered. So he nodded. “I understand.”

His ex furrowed his eyebrows together. “What?”

“I said I understand,” the redhead shrugged. “I mean, I’d say the same thing if I were you. But I want to have.. some form of contact with you. Or else moving all the way down here is a waste of time and effort.”

“You’re not gonna convince me to get together with you and accuse me of being afraid of something?”

The redhead smiled a bit. “I’m not, man.”

Mickey chewed on his lip. “So we’re friends?”

Ian swallowed, his smile faltering. The word stabbed him. Nodding was a hard task to do—it was him agreeing to be friends with someone he was deeply in love with. But this was progress. And they had to start somewhere, right?

It still didn’t stop his heartstrings reaching towards Mickey, and it didn’t soothe the pain. But he was closer to Mickey than he was this morning.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you were a rose filled with thorns_
> 
> _but i still touched you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: death
> 
> also, if you see either " _M:"_ or " _I:_ " that indicates who sent what text message. M is mickey and I is obviously ian.

_“_ _I just want everybody to know, I’m fucking gay,” Mickey declared. Silence stretched on as everyone eyes stared at him, forcing words to spill out of his mouth like water. “Big ol’ mo. Just thought everybody should know that.” His eyes met the redhead, standing at the doorway, lips parted in shock. Mickey raised his eyebrows defiantly. “You happy now?”_

__The silence stretched on. Mickey could feel nervousness rippling through him like electricity. Everything inside him was getting electrocuted. Seconds turned into hours, minutes into days. Mickey had felt like he had aged twice as quickly as Terry stood up._ _

__

_Terry didn’t fight him. He didn’t scream. He didn’t storm up towards Mickey. He simply pulled out his gun and shot his son._

__

Mickey woke up, gasping, a thin film of sweat on his forehead. His lungs hurt, as if a bullet _did_ pierce his chest and he was actually dead. But his heart rattled in his ribcage, wreaking havoc in his body. _It was just a dream. You’re not dead. He never killed you._ The voice that was forcing rationality into his fogged conscious was failing miserably.

__

He had the same dream over and over again ever since Terry died—with Mickey coming out and Terry killing him cold blood. Mickey would feel the pain of the lethal object piercing his chest; ripping through his chest and the soft walls of the chambers of his heart, and he’d wake up right before he died. Even when he woke up, he felt like there was a dull ache in his chest—as if the bullet was wedged in his heart, nestled between his lungs.

__

His shaky hands had memorized what to do as his fingers clicked on the name on his phone for his ears to hear the voice he was yearning for all these years. _One ring, two rings, three, four, five..._

__

_“Hey, Mick,”_ the croaky voice answered. _“It’s 3 in the morning.”_

__

Mickey swallowed hard, his mouth drier than a desert. “I couldn’t sleep.”

__

_“Are you an insomniac or some shit?”_

__

“Probably. Do you have work the next day?”

__

_“No, I have a day off.”_

__

“Good, I don’t feel _as_ bad for waking you up in the middle of the fuckin’ night.” A couple beats of silence went by, before Mickey opened his mouth again. “How’s your, uh.. family doin’ with you just up and leaving?”

__

_“I mean, I didn’t just up and leave,”_ the redhead replied. _“They were upset though. Doesn’t matter how they feel. I still did it, so there’s really no point in complaining about it.”_

__

“How’d you even get this place?” the dark-haired man questioned. “It’s kinda coincidental that you’ve been transferred to the same place I’m hiding out at.”

__

_“With a different identity, Bryan.”_ Mickey could hear the smile in his voice.

__

“I had to cover my tracks, man,” Mickey reasoned. Ian let out a sound of agreement before the two submerged in silence. Mickey liked how he didn’t have to fill the air with small talk with Ian—where both of them could stay in silence, letting it surround them and cradle them in its arms. “Why’d it take you three years to come back to me?” The minute they were out there, Mickey wanted to swallow them back in; pluck them out of their existence and chew on them until they were nothing but little pieces of words.

__

Ian let out a loud sigh, as if he was carefully weighing out his words. _“I.. don’t know.”_

__

“I think I deserve a better explanation than that,” the older man stated.

__

_“And I’d give it to you; if I had one.”_ The redhead paused. _“You ever went to the beach?”_ Mickey bit his lip. The bullet in his chest dove in deeper inside him, to the core of his body.

__

“No.”

__

_“It’s been 3 years,”_ the redhead replied. _“You still haven’t been able to go?”_

__

“I didn’t _want_ to go. What was the point of going there alone?”

__

There was silence on the other line. _“Maybe we’ll go to the beach one day. Just give me a heads up so my pasty ass can get sunblock.”_

__

Mickey smiled. “You didn’t bring sunblock?”

__

_“I did, it’s just running out,”_ the redhead replied. _“You up for it, Milkovich? Going to the beach together?”_

__

Mickey’s smile faltered as he picked on a loose thread. “It’s, uh.. late. I should get back to sleep.”

__

_“Alright. Night.”_

__

“Night, Ian.”

__

 

__

****************

__

__

Mickey had been chewing on his sandwich as Ezekiel and a woman with glossy hair the colour of the bark of a tree, caramel skin and two swirls of green and gold. “Hey, Forrester,” Ezekiel greeted.

__

“Uh, hi.” Mickey said back, swallowing down the dry sandwich. The girl had smiled at him. “Who’s the chick?”

__

“Rosaline,” Ezekiel replied.

__

“Rose for short,” she nodded as she sat between the two. “I’m Ezekiel’s cousin.”

__

“I’m Bryan,” Mickey responded, after taking another bite. He was starting to get used to Bryan and Bryan’s identity. Bryan didn’t exist before he had moved here; he was created because Mickey needed a different name so they wouldn’t catch him. He even considered dying his hair, but the sun had bleached it slightly to a very dark brown. His freckles had darkened significantly—before they were small specks of gold. Now they were specks of dirt. He hadn’t looked anything like Mickey.

__

“He works at my dad’s store,” Ezekiel told his cousin, “great guy.”

__

_You free?_ The text had read. It had come from the redhead, and the mere text made Mickey’s heart flutter helplessly as an iron fist closed over his chest. He hated the effect Ian had on him. It was sad and he couldn’t stop it. He tried to put it out, like a fire. But it wasn’t a fire. It was a tree that grew up from his heart, its branches reaching out and growing leaves. And he didn’t have a chainsaw to tear it off. Even then, he’d have the trunk and the roots left over.

__

_M: Yeah._

__

_I: Where do you want to meet up?_

__

_M: There’s a bar near my house if you wanna go._

__

_I: Sure. We’ll meet in 20 minutes?_

__

_M: Okay. I wanna get shitfaced at 4 PM anyways._

__

_I: Lol. Definitely the right time to get hammered._

__

Mickey had gotten up and looked at the two cousins. “Hey, I gotta go. I have to meet up with a..” he paused. “Friend. I’ll see you guys later. Nice meeting you, Rosaline.” He walked to his car, the voice of Rosaline yelling ‘It’s Rose’ following him back to his car.

__

He was going to have to pull the tree and the roots out of his heart, but he didn’t know how to.

__


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This feeling is way too bitter for me to taste_
> 
> _and way too sweet to not want more of it_  

_"You ever think we'll get out of this shithole?" Ian questioned the dark-haired boy sucking on a cigarette. "Get out there, do something other than rot away here."_

_"You might," Mickey countered, "I'm meant to rot away here." He took another drag, the end of the cigarette glowing like a sun during the day. The absence of the actual sun made Ian feel colder, as the darkness of the night hid him and Mickey._

_"I'd take you with me." Mickey laughed._

_"And go where?"_

_"I don't know yet," the redhead mumbled. Maybe they were going to stay here for their whole lives, rotting away like a plant in the corner of a room; wiltering away because the humans forgot to water it yet again. Mickey witnessed the sudden emotion of hopelessness in the redhead and sighed._

_"Hey, man, you'll figure it out. You're a bright kid." Ian turned his eyes to the older boy._

_"Yeah?"_

_Mickey smiled. "Yeah." His smile was beautiful; it was its own sun, lighting up the sky of his face. He almost never smiled around others, Ian noticed. Just around the redhead. Maybe he didn't need the actual sun to warm him up. “I mean, you’re gonna be part of the army, right?”_

_“If I even get the hang of math,” the redhead grumbled._

_“Who the fuck thought algebra and geometry were needed to be able to blow up some dude from another fucking country?” Mickey questioned._

_“People who wanted bigger weapons.”_

_“Well, math’s fucking stupid.”_

Ian’s eyes closed as the TV slowly turned down into mumbling. His eyelids were slowly giving under the pressure of sleep pushing down on them. It was close to 2 AM, and Ian had just come home from a shift. He hadn’t had work the next day, and was hoping to stay up to talk to Mickey.

Mickey had started calling the redhead in the middle of the night, randomly. Ian knew what it was about. Mickey would sometimes have nightmares which would haunt him long after he was up, and Ian was the only one who could truly calm him down. The redhead lost count of the nights of him waking up at the ass crack of dawn just to see Mickey sitting beside him, his muscles tense, and his lips wrapped tightly around a cigarette.

And then he’d talk. He’d talk about his dream, and how he was worried, and how those dreams would fuck him up. And Ian didn’t mind one bit. He spent years trying to pry the dark-haired man open. Mickey was like a nut—his shell hard and difficult to crack, but with the right amount of pressure, the shell did crack and Ian got to see what was inside.

He missed the days when Mickey would tell the redhead what’s on his mind.

Mickey’s shell was harder to open, but Ian was persistent. He cracked the shell once before, he’ll crack it again. And this time he won’t do anything to get Mickey to mistrust him again.

The ring of the phone echoed through the room, waking the redhead up. He picked up and heard the heavy breathing of the dark-haired man. “Hey.”

The heavy breathing ceased. “ _Hi,”_ the dark-haired man greeted back. _“Didn’t think you’d still be up. It’s fucking late, man.”_

“I just got home,” Ian responded. “Like, an hour ago.” He let out a laugh through his nose.

_“Why are you still up?”_

“Can’t sleep,” the redhead lied. “Why are _you_ still up?”

_“I can’t sleep either.”_

“Have you tried to sleep?”

 _“Yeah, man,”_ the older man answered, _“I’d be asleep if it worked. Obviously.”_

“You need help with your irregular sleep schedule, Mick,” Ian informed him.

_“I’m fine.”_

“You don’t sound fine.”

 _“I’m fine, Gallagher,”_ Mickey repeated, but with an edge of firmness. Ian didn’t know if he was trying to convince the redhead or himself. Maybe it was both. Ian didn’t know.

He hated it when Mickey didn’t open up.

Ian decided to change the subject, clearing his throat. “You know, uh.. Monica died.”

 _“No shit?”_ the older man replied. _“When?”_

“I guess the day before I left you at the border,” the redhead answered, clearing his throat again. “Brain hemorrhage.”

 _“How’d you even find out she died?”_ the dark-haired man answered.

“She swung by at our place,” Ian responded, “guess she wanted to see us before she died.”

 _“How are you dealing with it?”_ Ian could hear the concern in Mickey’s voice clear as day, even though he wanted to create a fog that hid it from Ian’s plain sight. It didn’t work.

“I’m over it,” Ian replied.

_“We both know that’s bullshit.”_

“It’s been three years, hasn’t it?” Ian questioned. “She wasn’t in my life long enough for me to even think about her, let alone even fucking missing her.” The words pooled in his mouth and spilled out, creating lakes of sentences that only Mickey could spot.

 _“Fucked up, ain’t it?”_ the dark-haired man responded. _“When my mom died, I missed her too. A lot. Even though she was high on fucking heroine most of the fucking time, she was better than Terry. She at least tried the times when she_ was _sober and wasn’t passed out. You miss the wrong people sometimes.”_

Ian nodded, even though Mickey couldn’t see him. “I thought about you more than I thought about her, to be honest.” He stared out at the night sky; dark, stretching over the horizon tightly. He remembered the countless nights where he would stare at the sky, and think about Mickey. He’d be tired after work, but he’d think of the dark-haired man, and the sleepiness would go away, and he’d wonder what Mickey was doing.

 _“Man, it’s too late for this,”_ Mickey sighed.

“You still needed to know. How much I thought about you. And missed you.” The lake was rising slowly, reaching Ian’s chest. He couldn’t stop the words slipping out of his mouth.

 _“Don’t do this,”_ Mickey warned Ian. _“I can’t—fuck.”_ Ian could hear him sniffle and hang up.

He could feel the night swallow him up whole and hide him from the world as his heart broke again. It was, oddly, a bittersweet feeling.


	12. Chapter 12

The darkness of the night surrounded him like a cloak as he walked into a bar. He didn’t know what the time was, and frankly, he didn’t care. Opening the bar, his shoulders sagged a bit as he watched Ahlene behind the counter pouring drinks to serve to the drunken men. Her chocolate brown eyes raised to Mickey’s and she waved, smiling. Mickey waved back before sitting on the seats in front of the counter.

“Don’t you have class tomorrow morning?” she questioned.

“I do, and I’m gonna hate myself,” Mickey answered. “Hey, when does your shift end?”

“In about two hours,” she responded, “why?”

Mickey sighed. He couldn’t wait two hours; he still needed _some_ sleep. “Never mind.” He lifted himself off his seat. “It was fucking stupid anyway.”

“Wait, no,” she started, “I can still talk to you. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, man, I’m alright.” He flashed her a feeble smile that felt weird on his face—like strings pulling up the corners of his mouth. He felt like a puppet; operated by someone who had way too much power in their hands. “I’ll see you later.”

“At least sit down and have a drink,” Ahlene suggested. The dark-haired man sighed again and sat down.

“The usual please.”

Ahlene nodded and placed his beer in front of Mickey, the latter chugging it down. “I made it before you came here. Kind of was hoping to see you anyway.” She smiled down at the younger man, and Mickey had to smile back. He hadn’t planned to make friends when he got here. He wasn’t the friendliest person. But Ahlene had managed to make him care about her with her warm eyes and soft smile.

After a couple beers, Mickey’s head was spinning and his throat was burning from the consummation of alcohol; the flames of alcohol licking his insides and burning parts of his brain so he didn’t have to think.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” she questioned.

“No.”

“Forrester, you’re obviously fucking bothered by something.” Her eyes searched his face for anything that could give her the answer. “Tell me.”

Mickey hesitated. His icy blue eyes scanned the crammed place before meeting Ahlene’s warm chocolate ones. The men in the bar were all way too drunk, or way too high. Hell, Mickey was too drunk to filter his words. “You know the dude that moved in? The guy who you wanted to hook me up with?”

Ahlene grinned. “Did you fuck him?” her grin disappeared after studying the dark-haired man’s grim expression. “Does he have a wife?”

“No. To both. Christ, Ahlene,” he sighed again. “He’s Ian.”

“Ian?” her face was screwed in confusion. “You mean _the_ Ian?”

“Yup.” He sat back down. “He wants to get back with me, and.. I don’t know.”

“You want him back with you?”

“Yes? No? I don’t fucking know.” He sighed. “Fucking pathetic, isn’t it?”

“What’s pathetic?”

“I’m still not over the guy, and it’s been three years,” he answered. “I pictured myself with someone else by now, so even if he came to me, I could tell him that I have a boyfriend and hurt him the way he hurt me.” Mickey could still feel the pain he felt when Ian spat out that he had a ‘fucking boyfriend’, in his words. The sentence wielded a knife into his heart, but Ian kissing him made the knife dissipate like water.

“That’s not pathetic,” she reassured him. “Look, I’m still in love with a deadbeat, who’s probably not going to come back to me. _I’m_ pathetic. But that’s not the point.” She put a hand on her slim waist. “He came all the way from America for you. Left his family, everything, for you.”

Mickey scoffed. “It’s a little too fucking late.” He took another sip of the beer. “He told me he loved me. You wouldn’t leave someone you love. Would you?”

Ahlene leaned on the counter. “Bryan—”

“Mickey,” the dark-haired man corrected her. “It’s Mickey.”

“Well, Mickey,” she started, “maybe at the time, he thought that it was better to be apart. He’s changed his mind, obviously. He’s here now. There’s no point thinking about the past because the past has already fucking happened. We can’t go back and change it. But, it does impact us greatly. You’re still hurt by what he did.” She patted his shoulder. “Think about it. Call me over if you want more. I’ll drive you home tonight.”

Mickey took another sip of his beer, the bitter taste going straight to his stomach as the substance sloshed around in him. He didn’t know what more to think of; his head was empty and his heart was full. His heart wanted to spill the contents out into the mug and leave it there, but he knew that wasn’t possible.

It was worth a try, however, as he took another sip of his beer.

 

****************

Mickey’s head felt like there were bombs inside, ripping his head to shreds when he woke up. The bitter feeling of nausea rose up to his throat and he ran to the bathroom, falling onto his knees and puking the remains of the alcohol from the night prior. After he emptied his stomach, he shakily reached for the flush handle and used all his might to push down on it.

Pulling himself up and brushing his teeth, he raked his mind for any remnants of the night before, but drew a blank. Sighing, he checked the time as he walked out of the washroom; 12 PM. He missed his fucking class. _For fuck’s sake._

Crawling into bed, he grabbed his phone, his head complaining at the sudden brightness right in front of his face, but he ignored it. He got two texts; one from Ahlene and one from Ian. He opened Ahlene’s one first.

_A: Hey, hope you feel better. Was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner tonight. Talk soon. PS: Mickey suits you better than Bryan._

Mickey’s eyes scanned the last sentence over and over again. He _told_ her what his name was? “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself. He knew that she didn’t know what his actual full name was, and he was going to make sure she doesn’t know what it is; which seemed stupid, but Mickey’s paranoia never failed to take hold of his logic and throttled it until it died.

_M: Hey, thanks. I still feel like fucking shit but it’s a bit better. Don’t know if I’ll be able to go out for dinner. PS: I don’t trust myself to be drinking around you ever again._

His eyes hovered on the redhead’s text, before he decided to call his ex. He couldn’t remember if he drunk dialed the redhead, but he was hoping he didn’t. There was a lot of stuff he never wanted to tell the redhead, which would sit on his head, ready to be released into the air. Drunk Mickey was emotional and didn’t think twice about spilling things out.

The rings lead to Ian’s voicemail, the voice going straight to Mickey’s stomach. It was at the right pitch; not too high, but not too low. Everything about his voice was perfect and he hated how it affected him to this day. “Hey, uh.. sorry I couldn’t really text you back last night. I was shitfaced last night and somehow got back to my place. I called you because, um..” his brain racked for an excuse, but he came up with none. “Just call me back when you can. Bye.” He hung up and pushed himself out of his bed, the need for water and his dry mouth and throat exceeding the need to stay in bed.

As he was chugging down his third cup of water, his phone rang and he glanced at the ID before picking it up. “Hey, Ian.”

 _“Hey,”_ the redhead greeted back, _“how’s your hangover?”_

“Hurts like a bitch.”

 _“You want me to come over?”_ he questioned. _“I could get coffee on the way. And some painkillers.”_

“Uh.. I guess,” he answered. “I’ll text you my address.”

 _“Cool.”_ The _click_ of the redhead hanging up followed after the one word answer, and Mickey opened Ian’s thread, about to text him the address when his eyes scanned the text the redhead sent the night prior. _Hey,_ it said, _sorry about what I said. It wasn’t fair for me to come back into your life and talk about missing you after ditching you at the border. That’s what I’m good at, right? Running away when things get fucking complicated. Anyway, I wanted to say I’m sorry. Have a good night, Mick._

Mickey swallowed hard before texting the redhead his address. Sure, Ian hurt him. Multiple times. He fought hard for Mickey to acknowledge him as more than just a fuck buddy. He fought until Mickey willingly dug his hands into his own chest and pulled out the beating heart to give to Ian, and then he threw the heart on the ground and stomped on it. Mickey had all means to be hurt.

_“You’re not gonna disappear again, are you?” Mickey questioned one night while both him and the redhead were lying on Ian’s small bed. He couldn’t believe that Ian was back. He tried not to pinch himself to make sure that this wasn’t a dream. He didn’t want to wake up and be alone again._

_“Depends.”_

_Mickey’s heart quickened. “On?”_

_“Whether you’re gonna disappear with me,” the redhead stated._

_“You mean.. leave this place?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“And where would we go?” Mickey questioned._

_“I don’t know yet,” the redhead answered, “but somewhere warmer. I’m sick of this cold ass weather.” He sighed softly, his emerald eyes scanning the dark room. “Would you leave? With me?”_

_Mickey looked up into those emerald eyes that had its own shine even in the darkness. They were two orbs full of hopes and dreams and possibilities, and.. love. “I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to leave this shithole, man. I’m down.”_

_“So if I told you tomorrow that we’re going to California, you’d leave with me?”_

_“That’s a pretty shitty state to go to.”_

_“But would you go to a shitty state to go to with me?”_

_Mickey didn’t hesitate; he knew the answer before he had to think of it. “Yeah. I would.”_

Mickey answered the door to see a redhead with a tray, two cups perched on it. “Hey,” Ian greeted and scanned the small apartment. “Nice place.”

Mickey scoffed. “Stop lying, it’s a shithole.”

“Well, it’s _your_ shithole,” the redhead pointed out. “You pay for the shit in here. By yourself. Better than the shithole back in Chicago.”

Mickey stayed silent, before mumbling “it’s not mine, I pay for the rent bills”, but the redhead’s words filled him with pride. “Speaking of places, how’d you even figure out that I live ‘round here?”

Ian shrugged. “Wild guess?”

“That’s a crappy fucking lie, and you know that.” He grabbed one of the cups before gesturing for the redhead to sit down, and the redhead obliged. “The only person who roughly knew where I lived was Svetlana, and that was because she still wanted me to still see Yevgeny from time to time. Something about it being crucial that the father is in the child’s life somehow.”

“She hasn’t come down here to visit you?”

“Can’t afford a plane ticket and I’m not going to pay for one,” Mickey stated. “Kid’s nice, but I..” he sighed, “I don’t.. really want to be part of his life, because—well, you know why.” Ian’s quick nod confirmed Mickey’s words.

“Our parents really fucked us over,” Ian sighed.

“You’re telling me.” There was a quiet silence between the duo, Mickey sipping his coffee and the redhead staring at his hands.

“Remember how we talked about leaving Chicago and South side and not looking back?” Ian questioned.

Mickey chewed on his lip. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“I mean, we’re out of the shithole.”

“I pictured not having to hide from the cops,” the dark-haired man pointed out.

Ian smirked. “Right.” Silence filled the room the way water fills a bottle. “You know, I was looking forward to the ‘sandals and tequila’ thing you said. My toes in the sand, while I worked on my tenth layer of sunblock.” He grinned, and Mickey had to smile. Ian’s smile was the dorkiest but the cutest thing ever; lighting up his face the way a chandelier lights the room. His emerald eyes met Mickey’s sapphire ones. “Maybe we could do what you wanted to do.”

Mickey cleared his throat. A part of him wanted to agree; to see the waves crashing and the cries of seagulls over his head. “I don’t understand why you’re still hung up on going there.”

“I’m trying to make the best of our shitty situation,” the redhead responded. “Instead of doing the same thing every fucking day, we can take a break. Breaks are good. How long has it been since you actually had a break from work and classes?” the redhead raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“I had a fever, like, two years ago, where I just stayed in bed,” Mickey admitted.

“Not the ones where you’re sick,” the redhead responded. “You need a break. So do I.”

Mickey gnawed on the cheek, but he already knew the answer. “Yeah, okay. We’ll go.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _you tasted so sweet_
> 
> _but the remnants of you are so fucking bitter_

_Numb. That’s how he felt. He felt like a thief had broken into his home of a body and took his feelings. He was familiar with the feeling, but he wasn’t okay with it. It was there when he was adjusting to his medication, it was there when he had been working as a janitor at Lip’s university. And it returned when he said goodbye to the only man who mattered to him._

_He had uttered the three words to Mickey before Mickey left to cross the border by himself; ‘I love you’. It didn’t matter if Mickey didn’t believe him. Mickey’s opinion on it didn’t change how Ian felt. And it killed everything good that Mickey and Ian created together to leave Mickey behind, but this was the best. They weren’t meant to be together, and Ian couldn’t pack his shit and move to Mexico with Mickey. That was too much of a drastic change for Ian. Plus, Ian was an EMT. Leaving him was the only thing Ian could do—right?_

_If it was the only thing that he could do, why did it feel so wrong? Why did Ian want to turn back around and run after Mickey?_

_Ian sighed. He’s done it. He’s left Mickey; he made his bed and now he has to lay in it, even though it had bedbugs and the blanket was filled with holes._

_He’s slept in worse places anyway._

The wind felt humid and sticky as Ian drove to Mickey’s place. He had adjusted quickly to the humidity of Mexico—even though he has to put on more sunscreen than he used to, and _that_ was a pain in the ass—and the new environment. The sun was vicious on his sensitive skin, but he was getting adjusted to it.

The sun is very friendly with Mickey’s skin, however.

His alabaster skin had darkened a couple shades, and his jet black hair lightened a shade, transforming him into someone else. Ian almost didn’t recognize him when he had seen the dark-haired man. He had looked more beautiful than Ian had remembered.

He did definitely work out after coming here; his body was more solid than he remembered. Ian hadn’t yet seen the man without his shirt on, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think about it when touching himself. He craved Mickey, how someone with a sweet tooth craves chocolate. He wanted to touch and taste Mickey’s soft, peach skin, run his fingers through the soft hair, and be with him again. Three years is too long.

The redhead’s eyes caught on his ex, the latter walking to the car. All the confidence had sucked out of him; like a vacuum had ran itself over him and collected his confidence and his swagger, and left him a person who flinched at their own reflection. It hurt knowing that Ian was the cause of this.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted before getting in the seat beside him.

“Hi,” Ian said back before starting the car. “Fingers crossed this direction doesn’t take us somewhere else.”

“It’s GPS, pretty foolproof,” Mickey stated.

“Isn’t it weird knowing that the little thing knows our location and is tracking us?”

“If it gets me from Point A to Point B, I don’t really give a shit what it knows,” Mickey admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “How many bottles of sunscreen have you gone through ever since you got here?”

“About ten,” the redhead joked. “The weather here seems to suit you very well.”

“That’s cause my skin isn’t sensitive as fuck, Gallagher,” the dark-haired man pointed out.

“Are you just going to bully me about my skin?”

“Just might,” Mickey grinned before turning his head to look out the window. The drive had consisted of the duo teasing each other about different stuff; just like how they would do it back in Chicago. It was almost like everything was okay; that no one was suffering with their heads, and no one noticed the palpable electricity between the duo.

Everything was momentarily okay again.

 

****************

The beach was beautiful to say the least. The sand was a colour of dull yellow, the tiny rocks holding Ian’s feet on top of their backs and creeping between his toes. The water would meet land, and run away, come back, and run away again. The breeze tousled Ian’s hair. The sand and water had made the sky bluer than usual— almost as blue as Mickey’s eyes. There were people laughing and playing volleyball. There were people laying on a cloth on the sand, eyes closed. There were people sipping martinis and tequilas.

It was what serenity looked like.

“You glad I dragged you here?” The redhead questioned.

“You just gave me a chance to drink somewhere other than at my shitty apartment and the bar,” his ex joked. “But seriously.. this place is beautiful.” Ian sneaked a glance at Mickey, and he could see the wind flutter through Mickey’s hair like fingers. He could see the slight smile on his lips and the contentment in his eyes. Mickey had looked happier than Ian had seen him ever since coming to Mexico. _And it’s because of me._

“Let’s go get drinks,” Ian suggested.

“You still drink?”

“Nah, I was hopin’ they offer Coke or water or some shit,” Ian shrugged.

“You gave up drinking?” Mickey’s eyebrows arched a bit, in genuine surprise.

“Yeah, I did,” Ian answered. “It was fucking with my system and I didn’t want to be.. unstable again.”

His ex nodded, opened his mouth, hesitated and then closed it. Ian tore his eyes away from Mickey as he grabbed a glass to down alcohol in. It was when the duo were sitting in lawn chairs, staring at the horizon in silence, that Mickey chose to spill out what he had seemingly wanted to say before. “How’s adjusting to the meds going? I know I’m, like, six years late.”

Ian swallowed. “Not really. Just normal to me.”

Mickey had nodded and resumed sipping from his drink, but Ian wasn’t done talking.

“I hate the meds,” he admitted, “but I realize that I’m gonna end up bonkers if I don’t take ‘em, so I just suck it up and take ‘em.” His eyes bore into the side of Mickey’s face, the latter refusing to make eye contact. “I felt numb after I left you at the border, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Well, it’s out there cause my dumbass assumed. Now you know.”

Mickey silenced himself, only allowing him glances from the corner of his eye to peek at the redhead. Ian’s face turned away from Mickey. The vibe between them switched from comfortable to awkward.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he admitted.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” the dark-haired man responded. “It’s not my fucking fault you felt like crap after you left me.”

“You can’t be pissed at me for not coming here with you three years ago,” Ian responded, annoyance biting at him like a rabid dog.

“No, I’m pissed that you had multiple chances to say no before I even left the state, but instead you went with me, and changed your mind when we reached the fucking border,” Mickey argued. “I’m pissed that you got my hopes up. I never get my hopes up.”

Part of Ian wanted to apologize and let the two of them enjoy the rest of the day, but he knew that neither of them were in the mood to stare at the sky and the ocean. Plus, he was tired of swallowing his words in fear that they might poison the people that inhale them, if he did let the words out. “And you think I don’t regret stringing you along only to go ‘hey I actually want to stay’? You don’t think it fucking hurt me to watch you cross the border knowing that I might not see the only person I fell for, ever again?”

“Why’d you wait three years to come here then, if you regretted the choice?” Mickey questioned.

“I don’t know, maybe because I thought you wanted nothing to do with me?” Ian questioned.

“And you changed your mind on that too?”

“You’re here with me, aren’t you?” the redhead questioned. That quieted Mickey down; his mouth closing and his hand raising to drink more of his liquor. Ian breathed out a long sigh before running his fingers through his hair. “Look, I just wanted this day to be fucking relaxing at least. This is the first time we’re hanging out and it’s not just for an hour at best.”

Mickey shrugged his shoulders in response, staring down at his drink in his lap. Awkward silence had wrapped its fingers around the two, and cradled them during their drive home.

Night was creeping on them very quickly, and Ian’s body felt energized, eyes darting towards his ex, who was looking out the window. “Sorry.”

“You keep apologizing for shit.”

“That’s cause I feel like I have to.”

Mickey pursed his lips. “What are you sorry for this time?”

“Being so.. finicky about my fucking decisions. Leaving, and then coming back years later. Shit’s fucked up.”

Mickey scoffed. “We’ve had a lot of other fucked up stuff happen to us.”

“That’s different,” the redhead argued, “I caused this. I don’t know when I’ll even stop apologizing. If you really wanna be left alone, I understand. It’s not fair for me to be dropping in and out of your life constantly. I’ll..” he gripped the steering wheel. “I’ll respect your wish if you don’t want me fucking shit up for you anymore.”

Mickey stayed silent, seemingly musing Ian’s words; flipping them over and inspecting them carefully. He had become quieter than before; sitting in silence rather than dancing in the noise. He was more reclusive, his thoughts bothering him and him only. Ian didn’t know if he liked it or hated it.

He wondered what Mickey might be thinking about. Was Mickey considering telling Ian to fuck off? Ian’s heart clenched painfully at the thought of it. He spent too much time away from Mickey, and he wasn’t in favour of spending more alone. However, he respected Mickey enough to keep his distance. It’d be painful, but he’s been through worse stuff.

He knew that being away from Mickey wasn’t that big of a deal, but he wanted to latch onto Mickey rather than let go of him. Both men were lost in their thoughts, Mickey being the first to notice that they were in front of Mickey’s building. “Thanks for the ride.” He climbed out of the car, walking into the building, the darkness swallowing him whole.

Ian’s head was pressed against the headrest, his heart beating painfully as he tried to get his hands to work to drive away. _What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me now?_ His anxiety crept up slowly and condensed itself into tears pooling at his waterline. The night blurred into one big black blob, as the coolness of his tears made rivulets on his cheek.

He raised his hand to wipe away the tears, being distracted by the car door opening and Mickey climbing back in. “You’re fucking stupid.”

“Thanks,” Ian quipped.

“How the fuck do you assume that I’m gonna tell you to fuck off? If I didn’t want you here I’d make it fucking clear, dumbass,” he said, sapphire eyes shining with annoyance and hurt and.. love. “I don’t want you to leave when I just got you back.” His hand raised and gently stemmed the trail of tears, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing against Ian’s cheek.

Ian leaned forward and closed the bridge between them, his lips pressing against the soft, pillowy ones he missed so much. He felt the push of Mickey’s lips on his as fingers found hair and weaved through them. His heart ached, but it was the ache of not being to beat out of his chest.

At that moment, everything was okay again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _how are you still everything i see_
> 
> _when you're not here at all_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! sorry for the late update! i was busy and had writers block. also, the first part of this chapter is really hard to read. i started crying while typing this up, and i usually don't cry over my own work. skip the italics if you don't want to read it, and you'll be good!
> 
> sorry for any errors. it's really late here.

_‘Why aren’t you here?’_

_Empty bottles littered the floor as he lay in bed, head swimming and stomach trying to puke out alcohol. He knew that he was close to landing his ass in a hospital, probably even death. But did it matter now? He was alone and alienated from everything he knew. What was the point of living if you were this miserable?_

_‘Why aren’t you here?’_

_Mickey’s skin felt hot and sticky. Mexico was extremely warm, sometimes even at nights. If he didn’t feel and look so gross—or wasn’t so fucking wasted—he probably would’ve gotten a man to warm his bed for another night. He needed more distractions than the green eyes and red hair he kept thinking about, but no distraction would’ve scraped off the last memories from Mickey’s brain, and he knew that. So why did he keep trying, when he knew his efforts were fruitless?_

_‘Why aren’t you here?’_

_Was he not good enough? Was he not enough? What more did Ian need? Stability? Mickey would’ve provided for that. He would’ve done anything for the redhead. If Ian told him to chase the moon, he’d do it, even though he knew that he could never chase the moon. He’d run until his legs would turn to jello and his lungs were filled with sawdust. So why didn’t he come?_

_‘Why aren’t you here?’_

_Mickey’s legs buckled under his weight and his throat filled with the disgusting taste of nausea as he pushed himself off the bed. He needed more alcohol. He needed to stop feeling so fucking lonely, it was pathetic. He needed to get some fucking sleep as well._

_‘Why aren’t you here?’_

_His legs buckled under his weight and he fell to the ground with a thud. “Fuck,” he groaned, and stared at the dark ceiling, his skin and the humidity and the loneliness not bothering him anymore. He was passing out, another night vanishing into thin air the minute he closed his eyes._

It was weird seeing Ian Gallagher at his apartment. Sure, he had thought about it, and hoped for it, and tried to achieve it, but he didn’t think it’d happen. He lost hope along the way.

But now, Ian was here, and it seemed like Mickey had photoshopped the redhead in, desperate to cling onto something. He didn’t have the energy to hope for that to be a permanent thing, even though the ghost of Ian’s lips still tingled on his, and his heart clung onto the feeling for as long as possible.

“Make yourself at home,” Mickey said, “you want something to drink or eat?”

“I’m good,” Ian smiled.

“You sure?” Mickey questioned, “you had almost nothing at the beach. Mostly because almost everything was fucking alcoholic and you decided to go clean, suddenly.”

“It’s been three years since I actually drank,” the redhead stated.

“Three years? No shit?” Mickey shook his head.

“No shit,” Ian smirked, obviously proud of his achievement. The pride travelled around the room and made Mickey’s chest swell up with the positive emotion. The first positive emotion in years. He shoved the positive emotion in a box and labelled it as ‘do not open’, opening his small fridge door and grabbing a beer.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I’ll live vicariously through you,” the redhead responded, a quirky smirk on his face. It made Mickey’s heart jump to his throat and swing on his tonsils, so he turned around and let the flow of beer shove his heart back in his ribcage. _I shouldn’t have let him kiss me._

But did he stand a chance in that moment? Did he _ever_ stand a chance? He wanted to hit himself. _Why the fuck am I such a fucking pussy?_

He was falling back in love with the redhead, after trying to fill his head with negative memories of _Ian fucking Gallagher_. Maybe he’ll let himself enjoy the feeling more now, before he slides down the slippery slope and ends up begging for Ian to stay with him again.

All good things come to an end. Might as well enjoy the temporary things while it lasts, right?

 

****************

_“This is it,” Mickey said, his heart shriveling up in his chest and his stomach tying in knots. “This is you breaking up with me.”_

_Ian sniffled, dead eyes scanning the dingy neighborhood. “Yeah.”_

_“Really?” Tears pooled in his eyes and all he saw was blurs of colours that clashed with each other and didn’t mix at all; creating imaginary borders between each other. This was it. Everything he built, brick by brick, was shattered to pieces. Everything’s gone. All the effort, gone. “Fuck.”_

_He knew what was gonna happen next. Sammi was going to come, chasing Mickey down with her gun—except that it never happened. Instead, the redhead morphed slowly into Terry; eyes void of emotion had turned into eyes of anger, as Terry pointed a gun to Mickey’s chest and shot him._

Mickey’s eyes opened to the darkness of his room, getting adjusted to the low light. _He’s dead. He’s not here. He’s six feet under._ Mickey’s lungs felt on fire as he gasped for air, calming his thumping heart down. He was afraid Ian might hear it and wake up.

_Wait._

Ian.

He was here. Mickey slowly turned his head to the side, and noticed the bob of red hair darkened by the low light, and the slow breathing next to him, the freckled face turned towards Mickey. _He looks so fucking peaceful._ Mickey slowly got out of bed and grabbed a Marlboro, his eyes wide open, refusing to retire back to bed.

He thought he was alone, until the small _tap_ s of feet against floor got louder, and a certain redhead got closer to him. “Hey,” Ian croaked, rubbing his eyes. “Come back to bed, man. It’s fucking 3 in the morning.”

“Not tired,” Mickey responded.

“Have you not slept at all?”

“I did sleep, and now I’m up.” His fingers were trembling, as if holding a cigarette was too hard for them. He couldn’t blame them; standing upright made Mickey sick to his stomach.

“You okay?” Ian questioned.

“The fuck are you gonna do if I said no?” Mickey asked, finally turning his head to the taller man.

“I don’t know,” Ian sighed, “try to help you. I don’t fucking know.”

Mickey gnawed on the inside of his cheek before turning his head away from the ginger. “Then yes, I’m alright.”

“Are you having nightmares again?” the redhead asked. “Is that what this is?”

“I’ve never had fucking nightmares,” the older man bluffed before placing his cigarette between his lips, and sucking on the stick.

“You’ve had nightmares, when I was manic,” the redhead argued. “I remember. It fucked you up.”

“A lot of things fucked me up during that time,” Mickey responded truthfully.

“I know, but that was just the icing on the cake.” Mickey could see the taller man fidget and sigh, his mouth opened while his brain worked the gears inside his head to form a sentence. “I know we’re not.. close enough anymore for you to come to me with that type of shit. I don’t even fuckin’ know if you trust me like that, or if you ever will. But if you do need someone to talk to, I’m here. Literally, in the same apartment.” Ian touched Mickey’s shoulder, the latter pretending to be too busy invested in the cigarette to let Ian’s words soak in like a cloth soaking in water. “I’m gonna get some shuteye. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” The _tap_ s of feet slowly quieted and the soft _creak_ of the bed reached Mickey’s ears, notifying Mickey that Ian was back in his bed, while his emotions rose up to his throat, clogging it and spilling over his mouth like vomit.

For the first time in three long, hard, years, Mickey let himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i'm actually so fucking salty about mickey's fate. like.. the man that should've understood mickey just up and left, and then continued to get pissed when mickey was too scared to come out for obvious reasons. like what the fuck? what was mickey supposed to do, ditch the wedding? terry would've fucking killed both ian and him. the show only provided us with ian's perspective even though we saw the scene where terry caught mickey and ian. even mandy called mickey a pussy AND SHE'S A FUCKING MILKOVICH. IT MAKES NO SENSE FOR HER TO SAY THAT. also, threatening mickey with ending their relationship because mickey was "afraid to be who he was" is super toxic. you don't force someone to come out. some people might be like "yeah but he started accepting himself after that" YOU DON'T FORCE SOMEONE TO COME OUT, AT ALL. NO MATTER WHAT. especially when you have an idea of how their family will react. and what pisses me off more is that mickey did what he thought was best, and he did what ian wanted him to do, and he supported and loved and cared for ian the way no one ever cared for him, and yet he got dumped and his heart broken right after he said he loved ian. idk y'all, i'm just really mad about his fate. mickey truly deserved better.


	15. Chapter 15

_Through cracked eyes, Ian could see his boyfriend sitting up and drinking from a beer, his shoulders rising and falling with every deep breath he took, heavy with emotions he wouldn’t let out. Ian contemplated pretending to sleep and let the older man deal with his own shit, or helping his boyfriend. He chose the latter._

_“Hey,” Ian greeted, his eyes opening as he shifted to sit up. Mickey’s head turned to meet his boyfriend’s eyes._

_“Thought you were asleep.”_

_“I don’t sleep this early.”_

_“The fuck you mean, ‘early’?” his boyfriend inquired, his eyebrows knitted together. “It’s the ass crack of dawn, man. Get some fucking sleep.”_

_“I could say the same to you,” the redhead responded. “Why are you up during the ass crack of dawn?”_

_A long pause that stretched over the couple. Mickey had turned his head back to the can of beer being held in his tattooed hand, eyes burning holes into the metallic surface. “Can’t sleep,” the dark-haired man decided to answer, still toying with the almost empty can._

_“Nightmares again?” Mickey had been prone to nightmares—he’d toss and turn in his sleep, and wake up with a start, covered in sweat. His eyes would be wider than usual; his mind crawled into the depths of hell that his trauma made for it while he was asleep, and presented Mickey with snippets of the doomed place. Usually Mickey would shrug it off, Ian would suck his dick, and things would go back to normal. Other times, Mickey would drink until he couldn’t stay awake anymore._

_“I don’t have nightmares,” his boyfriend denied._

_“You seriously think I’m a moron, don’t you?”_

_“What? No. Fuck no,” his boyfriend shook his head, as if that was ludicrous. “Why the fuck would you think that?”_

_“You don’t think I haven’t caught onto this?” the redhead questioned, “this has been happening for weeks now. I notice shit. I’m almost always up when you wake up from your nightmares.”_

_Mickey toyed with the can more, the little drops of beer left collecting together. “So what if I have fuckin’ nightmares? The fuck are you gonna do about it? The fuck_ can _you do about it?” he paused for a split second, it made the redhead question whether he was waiting for an answer; but he started talking before Ian could come up with one. “Nothing. So what’s the point?”_

_“So you don’t want your boyfriend to know somethin’s bothering you?”_

_“What can you do?”_

_“Comfort you,” the redhead answered. “By fucking, or by talking. I dunno. But anything’s better than bottling shit up.” There was another long pause, where Ian could see the dark-haired man weigh his choices. “We could start with me fucking the shit out of you and work our way up to talking and stuff.”_

_The corners of his lips turned up into a smirk, as he turned his head back to the redhead. “Sounds like a plan.” Ian couldn’t help but match his smirk as he moved closer to his boyfriend, pressing his lips to Mickey’s. He’s had sex with other people—nothing compares to Mickey. The way he felt, tasted, the way Mickey's fingers just knew how the redhead's body reacts to the soft touches; it was amazing. Nothing could compare to Mickey._

_The couple shifted so they were both laying down, Mickey breaking off the kiss so Ian’s fingers could reach for the lube. Ian made quick work of opening his boyfriend up, the latter sighing in pleasure as his body relaxed to Ian’s touch bit by bit._

_“You drive me fucking crazy, Gallagher.”_

Ian watched his ex suck on another cigarette, his shoulders tensed up and his hair messed up from running his tattooed fingers through it. Ian wanted to go back to him like he did the night before, but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to offer comfort for someone who didn’t want to open up (for justifiable reasons).

It was morning—sunlight streamed into the windows and filtered through the curtains, and the humidity doubled. Ian couldn’t get a full night’s sleep, he realized, as he sat up and a wave of sleep took over his body. He forced his eyes to stay open as he raked in his surroundings.

The apartment was small, but not too small. The room that the duo were in had beige walls—which, Ian assumed, were pasty white but got darker as time went by—with dark hardwood floor. He heard the _tap_ s of feet getting louder as his ex walked over to the nightstand, tossing his pack of cigarettes on the surface. Ian turned his eyes to the dark-haired man.

Mickey looked tired; purple spots like bruises appeared under his eyes and his hair was disheveled. His eyes were void of emotion, and his stubble stood out on his pale-but-still-tanner-than-before skin. He still looked beautiful to the redhead; though Ian wouldn’t dare say it aloud.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” the dark-haired man commented.

“What time is it?”

“Like, eight,” his ex answered.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” the redhead admitted.

“Yeah, the bed’s not the most comfortable fucking thing in the world,” Mickey shrugged, “but it’s not like I’m sleepin’ on pebbles or some shit. It’s not that bad for me.”

“It probably wasn’t the bed, man,” the redhead reassured the dark-haired man. “I’ve slept in worst places.”

“Yeah, like the water beds of the at the five star hotels you slept in after sucking some dude off,” Mickey responded. However, it was less of a jab at the redhead and more of a joke. Ian smiled; this was easy for them to do—joking around with each other like they used to in the high school bleachers and in Kash’s store. When things were much easier than they are now.

Ian grabbed a pillow and threw it at the older man. “Fuck off, that’s not the only place I stayed at.” His smile didn’t falter as Mickey’s smirk died down quickly—its life was too short for Ian’s liking. “What was life like.. here? I know it’s a stupid question but—”

“It is a stupid question.”

The redhead’s smile disappeared. _Of course it is._ “You don’t have to answer—”

“But you want me to answer it,” his ex interrupted again, “or else you wouldn't have fucking brought it up.”

Ian shrugged, picking at the fabric of his pants. “The question’s crossed my mind a couple times.” There was a silence between the two as Ian could almost hear Mickey mull over whether he should answer the question. Ian knew it’d be stupid as soon as it left his mouth, but he couldn’t swallow the words back and pretended they didn’t exist.

“It was how you imagined it to be,” his ex shrugged, “lonely. Stayed in hotel rooms for a couple weeks before I could get an apartment. I used up all the money you gave me, and then saved up to pay you back.”

“You didn’t have to pay me back,” the redhead replied.

“No, I didn’t,” his ex agreed.

“Then why did you?” Ian inquired. “Could’ve used it for something else.” In a split second, Mickey’s hand raised to his chest—where Ian’s name was tattooed in the skin. Ian’s eyes picked up on the slight movement, and his stomach churned with guilt and regret.

_“You’re under my skin, man, the fuck can I do?”_

“I don’t know,” his ex answered, “I don’t fucking think out all my actions like it’s chess or some shit. I do shit because it felt good. I used to beat people up because it felt good to have myself be in power, and not get my ass kicked for once. I fucked you cause it felt good. I got fucking revenge on Sammi after she snitched on you cause it felt good. I kept running back to you because it felt better than being without you. All my dumb choices led me to be a fucking fugitive with 32 grand and cops paroling the streets looking for me. So I don’t exactly fucking know why I paid you back, but maybe cause it felt like I was cutting ties with you.”

“You didn’t wanna cut ties with me,” Ian stated. It wasn’t supposed to be a question; it was a fact that was laid out between the two. Mickey swallowed and crossed his arms, neither denying nor admitting what Ian said. The redhead’s heart jumped to his throat, and he had to swallow it back down before he upchucked it onto the hardwood floor. “I’m sorry, Mick. I’m really fucking sorry. I didn’t know what I was thinking when I said coming here isn’t me anymore. Maybe I thought I had good intentions for myself? I dunno. I’m here, though. Three years later. And I’m sorry it took me this long to realize what was right in front of me, but I’m here now.” The heart traveled back up his throat. “I love you, Mickey.” He pushed himself off the bed and took tentative steps towards his ex.

“Fuck off, man,” Mickey scoffed, trying to bring back the lightness of his voice that he had a couple minutes ago, but his voice wobbled by the heavy weight of itself. “This ain’t fair. None of this is fucking fair.” He stepped back and stretched his arm, his hand touching Ian’s chest. It sent Ian back a couple years ago; Mickey with his tux and bowtie, and Ian with his jacket and broken heart.

“Don’t do this again,” the redhead pleaded, his body internally contorting and his heart creating a shield around itself. He had come all the way to Mexico for Mickey, Mickey can’t just end them. He couldn’t close the book to a story that wasn’t finished. He just couldn’t.

Mickey’s outstretched arm failed to drop, his sapphire eyes staring up at the pained redhead. His hand, which was splayed on Ian's chest, traveled up to the back of Ian’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Ian’s arms wrapped immediately around the shorter man’s body as he kissed back, touching the clothed skin delicately. Their tongues glided against each other as their bodies melted into one. Ian didn’t know where he ended and where Mickey started, and he didn’t care, as Mickey’s mouth moved to under his earlobe, nibbling the freckled skin there. “Take your fucking shirt off,” he whispered into Ian’s ear, and Ian complied, and then his hands grabbed the bottom of Mickey's shirt, hoisting it over his head.

Ian’s eyes traveled to the tattoo on Mickey’s pale chest; standing proudly out against his skin. He attached his lips to Mickey’s neck, kissing down to his collarbone, then the tattoo, and kept travelling south until he was on his knees and could see the strain of Mickey’s cock in his pants. He quickly pulled Mickey’s pants down, and wrapped his lips around the head and sucked. Above him, Mickey emitted a low groan as his eyes closed.

The redhead dropped his jaw even more to take as much of his ex into his mouth, his mouth salivating at the feel of Mickey’s dick in his mouth again. Tattooed fingers threaded through auburn locks and tugged as Ian’s wet mouth enveloped Mickey’s cock. Ian tapped Mickey’s thigh for the packet of lube and Mickey blindly grabbed it, giving the redhead the packet. Ian made quick work of ripping the packet slicking his fingers up with lube and waiting until the lube was warm on his fingers, before snaking his arm around his ex and gently probing a finger inside the tight hole. Mickey let out a hiss of pain and pleasure and bit down on his lip, while the redhead worked him with his mouth and fingers.

Ian pulled off with a loud pop and lifted himself from his knees, the two backing up into a wall. Mickey’s lips found Ian’s freckled neck, sucking and biting the tender skin. “You drive me fucking crazy, Gallagher,” he mumbled against the redhead’s neck.

“You drive me wild, too,” the redhead admitted as his ex turned around and presented his ass to Ian. _Fuck._ Ian spread lube on his cock before slowly thrusting into his ex, a moan eliciting out of the two. “So fucking tight, Mick.”

“You just gonna stand there with your dick in my ass?” his ex questioned, which provoked Ian to thrust, their grunts and moans and the slaps of skin filling the room. His arm reached around and grabbed Mickey’s cock, tugging on it at the same pace he was thrusting. Ian’s mind couldn’t co-operate; it ran away, leaving his body to fend for itself. And all his body cared about was Mickey.

His fingers intertwined through Mickey’s, the duo grunting as Ian kissed any part of skin his lips could reach. Ian angled his hips to rub against Mickey’s prostate, the latter lolling his head back onto Ian’s shoulder. Time slowed and sped up at the same time, and the familiar tightening in the balls appeared. “Fuck, Mick, I’m gonna cum,” he warned and shot his load into his ex, the latter cumming all over the wall and the redhead’s hand. “Fuck, I love you,” Ian admitted again.

Mickey turned his head and slotted their lips together, Ian immediately reciprocating the kiss, telling Ian everything he wanted to say in the small action.

For the first time in three years, Ian felt happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to update! school and shit yknow? i'm free now tho so fingers crossed that i can update more often now.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so incredibly sorry for the late update! i'm just not good mentally. i hopefully will update more but there's no guarantees.

Mickey was sore; in a good way. The post-sex high made his head swim and his heart beat out of his ribcage—or maybe it was the redhead who was situated in his apartment. Mickey still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Ian was in his apartment, in Mexico; like Mickey had Photoshopped him in the apartment in a fit of desperation and loneliness.

“What are we?” the taller man inquired as he took a drag of his cigarette. Mickey focused on the glowing tip; like a little sun in the sky surrounded by a billow of smoke.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

The redhead’s forehead creased, as if he found it absurd. Maybe it was absurd; two men in love with each other not being _with_ each other. Mickey just found it obvious. The soreness changed from good to bad and his heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach with a _thud._ “The fuck does that mean?”

Mickey barely heard the words as a chant of _take him back_ circled in his head. Ian could do anything—he could rip Mickey’s beating heart out of his chest and crush it in those freckled hands of his, and Mickey would still love him. The obvious fact was that no matter what the redhead did, Mickey would run back into his arms. Maybe because they resembled the only home he had.

“It means, ‘I don’t fucking know’,” the dark-haired man answered gruffly. “Just because you sucked my dick and fucked me in the ass doesn’t make you my boyfriend.” A part of Mickey begged the redhead to realize that Mickey didn’t mean it. The hurt that lingered in Ian’s eyes said otherwise.

Ian averted his eyes from the dark-haired man. “Fuck, I hate this, man,” he admitted. “I hate not having you.” He sighed. “It’s like.. every time I feel like I’m one step closer to making you trust me again, I’m pushed, like, ten steps back.”

“Isn’t that just our whole relationship?”

Emerald eyes lifted to his. “What?”

Mickey shrugged, arms crossed. “Like.. every time something fuckin’ good happens to us, shit hits the fan. Every time.”

Ian knitted his eyebrows for a second before nodding. “I guess so, yeah. It’s fucked up.” There was a pregnant silence between the two before Ian opened his mouth to end it. “I wasn’t.. right in the head when I dumped you. I wouldn’t have done that if I was stable.”

Mickey thought back to that day; Ian was standing on the porch of his house, Mickey in front of him. He could still remember the glazed over look in the redhead’s eyes, void of emotion. Unlike Mickey, who’s expressions sent clear messages out without him even uttering a word, Ian’s face more or less stayed neutral. He was a prime example of “the eyes are windows to our souls”. It was weird looking into those eyes and seeing nothing but two brick walls plastered over the windows.

_“You can’t fix me, cause I’m not broken! I don’t need to be fixed, okay? I’m me!”_

“You weren’t right in the head when you went to visit me in jail, were you?” Mickey inquired. Ian shook his head.

“Fuckin’ sucks that I left you high and dry when you asked me to wait.”

“Eight years is a long fucking time, man.”

“You would’ve waited for me,” the redhead pointed out. Mickey closed his mouth, not sure how to respond to that. Ian was right. Mickey would’ve counted down the days until Ian was out. He would’ve come to Mexico if Ian were to escape. He wouldn’t have wasted three years to come. He would’ve done anything to make sure the redhead was happy.

A longer silence infiltrated the air between them; Ian sitting on the bed and Mickey standing with his arms crossed. “Sammi was a bitch,” the redhead commented again, cutting the silence with a knife.

“No shit,” Mickey responded.

“You weren’t trying to kill her, were you?”

“No,” Mickey responded immediately, “ _fuck_ no. Debbie and I just wanted to teach her a lesson by drugging her up. We didn’t fuckin’ know she was a pillhead.” Another pause. “You don’t resent me for that.. do you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did,” the redhead replied. “She’s not even my fucking sister. She’s my cousin. I don’t care what happens to her.”

“You gave me shit for it,” Mickey reflected. He remembered Ian’s visit very vividly—almost too vividly. He remembered the happiness and how his body reacted to seeing the familiar bob of red hair. He also remembered how much it hurt to hear Ian lie to him about it. The memory grabbed his throat and squeezed hard until he couldn’t breathe anymore.

_“Yeah, Mick. I’ll wait.”_

“I didn’t give you shit for it,” the same voice defended.

“Like fuck you didn’t,” Mickey responded, eyebrows furrowed. He was more irritated than he should’ve been, but he was tired of this conversation and the tidal wave of emotions it offered to him. He was tired of feeling this way. “‘You tried to kill my sister’,” he mimicked Ian’s words, “remember?”

“Fuck,” was all the redhead could say. Guilt was etched on his face. “Man, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you should be.” Mickey sniffed and brushed his nose with his knuckle. “I’m stuck here hiding from the fucking cops cause of you.” It wasn’t entirely the redhead’s fault; Ian was manic. But it was still Ian’s doing, it was a mess Ian created and Mickey got his hands dirty trying to clean it up. “There’s not much to do about it now.”

“At least you’re not beating my face in,” Ian replied.

Mickey couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Progress, I guess.”

Ian smiled back; a lopsided smile that touched his eyes and made his whole face light up. God, Mickey didn’t think he’d ever get tired of that smile. “I really don’t fucking know how to make you trust me again. You’re pissed at me—”

“Pissed is an understatement,” Mickey admitted.

“Whatever, man,” the redhead continued, “I honestly can’t fucking go back and knock some sense into myself. But I’m here now. And I love you.”

Mickey’s teeth dug into his lower lip, chewing on the soft part slightly. “How do I know you won’t fucking.. up and leave?”

The redhead shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to trust that I won’t.”

Looking at his ex, he wanted to trust him like he used to—back when Mickey would tell him about his mom and his life, and when he didn’t see Ian as someone who broke his heart but as the purest thing to ever grace this world. He wished he could forget the past couple of years and trust the redhead with all his heart again.

He wished for a lot of things, but neither of them came true.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this was so short! this is just the prologue and when i've uploaded this i will start on the second chapter, which will be longer. 
> 
> \- Gaylagher


End file.
